Cross Your Heart and Hope to Die

by Nancy Martin

  “Wow,” she said. “Next time you get upset, come over to my house. This place looks great.”

  I pulled her to sit down at the kitchen table, and I told her my plan.

  “Are you sure about this?” Her frown was doubtful. “Nora, the police were just at my house.”

  “What did they . . . ?” I finally saw the serious expression on her face. “They were asking about Michael?”

  “No,” she said gently. “They were asking about you. They wanted to know how badly you wanted Kitty’s job, and I tried to assure them . . . Well, that’s not what’s important right now. They said they found the gun.”

  “The gun Danny used? Where was it?”

  She reached for my hand. “I’m sorry, honey. It was at his house.”

  “Danny’s house?”

  “No.”

  “Michael’s.”

  Libby squeezed me hard. “They searched it this morning, with a warrant and everything—trust me, I asked. They’re going to arrest him. They say he was part of the plot all along.”

  “Libby, you know that’s not true. The gun had to be planted.”

  “I know you believe in him, but I—Just where is he, Nora? The police are looking for him for the police shooting, too. And he’s disappeared.”

  “He’s looking for Emma, that’s why!”

  “Are you sure?”

  I sat still and tried to sort through the information, then picked up the phone and punched in Michael’s number again. I listened to it ring and ring. I wanted to cry. I wanted to stop shaking.

  Beside me, Libby said, “Why do we always pick the wrong men? It can’t be so impossible. There must be something wrong with us. I just want somebody with no serious drawbacks, like mental illness or felony charges. Who’s also good in bed, of course, and makes a decent living and doesn’t get mixed up in drugs or murdering people or—”

  I terminated the call.

  “Are we still going out?” Libby asked.

  I had to try. Michael was going to jail for sure unless I came up with some solid evidence that contradicted what the police had.

  “Of course we are.”

  She respected my tone. “Okay, okay. Where do you want to go?”

  “To Brinker Holt’s condo.”

  “How is that going to help?”

  “If he didn’t hire Kitty’s killer, I’m sure Brinker filmed himself coercing the right person into hiring the killer for him.”

  “He films everything,” Libby agreed softly.

  “With special attention paid to the moments when he humiliates people. So let’s see where he stores his tapes. Lexie’s lured him to a meeting this afternoon. She’ll keep him busy while we check out his condo.”

  “Can we get inside?”

  “I think so. One of Michael’s people is helping me. First we have to find this address.” I showed her Aldo’s printed note.

  “Aunt Nora?”

  Startled, we both turned. Rawlins stood in the doorway, and it was clear he’d heard everything. Behind him lurked Orlando, looking scared and clutching Spike in his arms for comfort.

  Rawlins said, “I want to help.”

  I tried to smile. “That’s very kind of you, Rawlins, but the most helpful thing you can do today is stay here and look after Orlando.”

  It was the wrong thing to say.

  “I don’t need anybody to look after me!” Orlando pushed past Rawlins and rushed into the kitchen. “I want to help, too.”

  Spike jumped out of Orlando’s embrace and ran to me. He bounded up and braced his front paws against my knee. His message was clear.

  “No,” I said to the dog. “You can’t come either.”

  “But we can help,” Orlando insisted.

  “We can,” Rawlins chimed in. “We can be lookouts.”

  “Or sneak through secret passageways,” Orlando volunteered. “I’m the smallest. I can sneak.”

  “I want to help Mick,” Rawlins said. “If he’s in trouble, I want to help.”

  “Why you?” Libby demanded. “Have you been hanging around with That Man again?”

  “Mom—”

  “Rawlins, you are grounded. Absolutely grounded.”

  “I like Mick. He’s been nice to me. He gave me a chance and taught me some good stuff. Like, like . . . well, some good stuff. Besides, if you want to be sure where I am all the time, let me come with you today.”

  Libby opened her mouth to refuse, but didn’t have the motherly ammunition to combat his argument.

  Orlando seized my arm, and his gaze implored me to do the right thing. “Please,” he said. “Don’t leave me alone here. I want to come with you.”

  “But you’ll be perfectly safe with Rawlins.”

  “I want to be with you.”

  “Orlando—”

  His grip slackened. “You don’t think I can do anything,” he said. “You think I’m a wimp. I’m a nerd and a wimp.”

  I tried to put my arms around him. “That’s not true.”

  “I just need a chance,” he said. “I want to learn stuff like Rawlins. I want a chance, too.”

  “But . . .”

  Both boys stood stiff and braced for the worst.

  I sighed. “All right. You can come. But this is potentially very, very dangerous. You have to do whatever I say, got that? If I say you have to stay in the car, that’s what you’ll do, understand?”

  Orlando whooped with joy. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! We’re going! We’re going!”

  Spike yipped gleefully and peed on the floor.

  “Get your coats.”

  “I’ll need my backpack,” said Orlando. “I’ll bring supplies.”

  Shaking her head, Libby led the way to her minivan.

  Libby drove us to the city, and we found the backstreet location of Aldo’s contact. It was a hardware store with dirty windows and one of those WE’LL RETURN cardboard clocks hanging on the door. The clock had no hands.

  “Want me to go in?” Rawlins asked from the backseat as we all stared at the seemingly vacant store.

  “Or me?” Orlando piped up.

  “I’ll take care of this,” I said, stepping outside.

  I went to the door and knocked. Inside, an elderly man shuffled over to unlock the door and let me in. Aware that Libby, Spike and Orlando watched me, their noses pressed to the windows of the minivan, I took a deep breath for courage and stepped into the store.

  The hardware store smelled like old oil and coffee. Large shelves crowded with outdated merchandise loomed around me. Although the light was dim, I saw power tools, bins of nails, a collection of garden rakes and a row of wheelbarrows. A group of five elderly men in nearly identical cardigan sweaters sat on folding chairs at a rickety card table in a spot of the sales floor that had been cleared to make space for their table. They were playing dominoes and drinking espresso. The espresso machine, on the checkout counter beside an antique brass cash register, was the only inanimate object in the entire store that wasn’t covered in a layer of dust. Underfoot, the floor crunched with pistachio shells.

  I guessed the last time anybody bought hardware here had been during the Nixon administration.

  With hesitating steps, I went over to the cash register.

  Another gentleman got up from the table and hobbled to the counter. He had a grand total of twelve long wisps of white hair combed over a shining bald head. His eyebrows, however, were thick enough to hide a mouse in. With hunched shoulders, he stood about five feet tall, and his hands were gnarled with arthritis.

  From under the cash register, he palmed a small envelope and slid it across the counter to me. Meekly, I accepted the envelope and peeked inside. It was the credit card–style passkey that Aldo had requested.

  “How much do I owe you?” I asked, breaking the intense silence.

  He shook his head. No words.

  “Okay,” I said, trying to muster some cheer. “Thanks very much!”

  I let myself out the front door, noting
that everybody had been careful not to look at me during my two minutes in the store. Probably so they wouldn’t be forced to identify me in a lineup.

  I got back into the minivan.

  “How was it?” Libby asked.

  “Twilight Zone. Nobody said a word.”

  We drove along Front Street not far from Independence Mall, a normally busy neighborhood of restaurants, tourist-friendly parks, the Seaport Museum and high-priced condos near Penn’s Landing and the piers. Despite the constant dull thunder of I-95 traffic, the neighborhood was unusually peaceful that afternoon. Few tourists wandered the sidewalks. A gang of teenagers slouched by, headed somewhere else. People were probably at home napping, preparing to expend the last of their holiday energies in one last night of revelry before the new year began. Libby made an illegal U-turn down near the Sheraton and went back until she found a parking space a block from the building where Brinker Holt lived.

  “Now what?”

  I checked my watch. Lexie’s meeting with Brinker would be starting in a few minutes. “Let’s watch for a while. To be sure Brinker’s not around anywhere.”

  “This is like a stakeout,” Rawlins said from the backseat.

  “We need binoculars,” Orlando added.

  “And coffee,” Libby suggested. “Even Charlie’s Angels drank coffee on stakeouts.”

  “Doughnuts would be good, too,” Rawlins said.

  “I’ve never had a doughnut,” Orlando said.

  Libby turned around and gave him a shocked stare. “Never? You’ve been sadly deprived, young man.”

  Even Rawlins was taken aback. “That could be child abuse.”

  Orlando sensed an opportunity. “Where could we get some doughnuts?”

  Firmly, I cut across their discussion. “We’ll just watch, okay?”

  Rawlins unbuckled his seat belt and climbed over the seat. He began to rummage in the flotsam of family junk that had accumulated in the back of the van.

  “What are you doing?” Orlando asked.

  “There might be something we can use.” Rawlins’s voice was muffled, but determined. “My douche-bag brothers keep all kinds of—”

  “Rawlins, please. We’re a loving family, and we don’t refer to—”

  “Like what do they keep here?”

  “I dunno, something. Here.” Rawlins came up with a skateboard and handed it to Orlando.

  “How can we use that?”

  “See if you can do better, nerd.”

  Orlando unbuckled and began to dig through the junk on the van floor.

  “Just stay out of my box,” Libby said. “Hands off my stuff.”

  I could suddenly see why even fictional detectives went on stakeouts by themselves. All this togetherness could get on my nerves very soon. “Let’s telephone Brinker’s number,” I said. “If he doesn’t answer, we’ll know the coast is clear.”

  Libby forgot about protecting her Potions and Passions inventory and pulled out her cell phone.

  “You can’t use that phone!” Rawlins cried. “What kind of Charlie’s Angel are you? What if he’s got caller ID? Your number will show up on his machine!”

  “What do you suggest, young man?”

  “Pay phone,” Rawlins said promptly. “Mick always uses a pay phone, and never one with a surveillance camera nearby.”

  “Oh, dear heaven,” said Libby. “You are grounded, grounded, grounded.”

  “Rawlins,” I said, “why don’t you take a walk? Look around for a pay phone. Libby, use your cell to call four-one-one and get Brinker’s home number.”

  “Good idea,” said Rawlins. “While I’m at it, I’ll sweep the area.”

  “I don’t want to know what that means,” I said.

  A few minutes later Rawlins slid out of the van and strolled away with the skateboard over his shoulder, blending into the landscape like any other aimless teenager.

  “I hope he’s careful,” said Orlando.

  The rest of us kept an eye on Brinker’s condo for another fifteen minutes. Spike and Orlando were especially vigilant.

  Meanwhile, Libby revealed she’d been contacted by Perry Delbert.

  “Who?”

  “Perry, the Exterminator. The bug man.” She dropped her voice to keep our conversation private from Orlando. “You met him at the bar last night. He called me this morning.”

  I remembered the shy, bespectacled bear. “What did he want? No, wait, I know what he wanted. Did you give it to him? This morning? With all the kids in the house?”

  Libby looked affronted. “We spoke on the phone, that’s all. He’d like to see me. Outside the pest-control customer relationship.”

  “Are you going to see him?”

  “I don’t know. What do you think? Is he . . . Do you find him a little less attractive than other men I’ve dated?”

  I felt sure I’d never laid eyes on at least half the men Libby had been with over the years. And Libby seemed to have a different concept of what an attractive man was. She tended to demand little more than a libido and a sense of erotic adventure. “He’s a little . . . rugged.”

  “More Jeremiah Johnson than the Sundance Kid?”

  “What?”

  “He’s not exactly Robert Redford at his best.”

  “Well, the sideburns are a little much.”

  Frowning, Libby pulled the rearview mirror sideways so she could study her own appearance. She rearranged her hair and tugged at her bra. “I have never found sideburns alluring, although I recognize that they can be an outward manifestation of a very manly inner soul. Maybe it’s a personal prejudice I need to overcome. Maybe Perry is exactly the man to help me overcome it.”

  I could sense where she was headed. “I’m sure he has other attractive attributes.”

  “Exactly. Exploring for good qualities can be a fulfilling personal quest.” But she shook her head. “He abandoned me once before, though. A man who discards a woman in her time of need is bound to do it again.”

  “Libby, he came to your house to get rid of some ants. He wasn’t ready to become the father of five children and fulfill your . . . um . . . manifestations.”

  She considered my opinion. “All right, at the time of our first encounters, maybe my situation was fraught with too many daunting responsibilities. To flourish, a relationship can’t have too many initial obstacles, right? Maybe I should give him a second chance.”

  I was feeling charitable. After all, Libby had been very kind to me lately. So I gave her the opinion she wanted to hear. “Maybe you should.”

  She sighed. “We should have more of these sisterly discussions, Nora.”

  Rawlins saved me from further sisterly discussion by appearing at his mother’s window. She rolled it down, and Rawlins leaned in. “Nobody’s at home,” he reported. “The coast is clear. We’re ready for phase two.”

  “Phase two?” Libby asked.

  “Get in the car, Rawlins,” I said.

  I gave Libby some simple instructions, then popped open the door.

  “Be careful,” she said. “I don’t want to have to call the police, but if you’re not out here soon—”

  “Don’t call the cops. No matter what. That will only make Michael look guiltier.”

  Before I could close the door, Spike jumped to the sidewalk.

  “No,” I said to the dog. “I’m not taking you.”

  Rawlins came around the minivan with his skateboard. “I’m coming, too.”

  “No, you’re not. I’m going in alone and—”

  The rear passenger door slid open and Orlando hopped out. “Me, too. I want to come.”

  “Forget it,” I said. “No way.”

  “We’ll look like a family,” Orlando said.

  “Yeah,” said Rawlins, looking stubborn. “It’ll be good cover. Besides, Mick will kill me if he hears I let you do this alone.”

  I eyed my nephew and saw a number of Blackbird qualities in his young face—qualities that told me an argument was going to be useless. And O
rlando looked so hopeful that I knew I couldn’t crush his heart by leaving him behind.

  I sighed. “Somebody remind me not to have sons. Okay, you two, let’s go. But I don’t want either one of you to say a word or do one single thing without asking me first. I’m serious, Rawlins. Promise me, or I’m leaving you here.”

  When Rawlins mumbled his promise, I picked up Spike and put him into my bag. We left the minivan and set off for Brinker Holt’s building, doing a very plausible impression of a real family. Rawlins slouched sullenly at my side, and Orlando trailed behind us, lugging his backpack and whining for us to slow down.

  Chapter 16

  Brinker’s building was a former waterfront warehouse that had been gentrified by a developer who had visions of exposed bricks, working fireplaces and million-dollar price tags. Now a series of expensive loft apartments that faced the water, the place was a prime address for people who pooh-poohed material things, yet wanted to live in splendor and with a convenient commute to the symphony, ballet and theater district. Starbucks planned to open soon on the first floor, according to a posted sign. An automated teller machine gleamed nearby, money available twenty-four/seven.

  We arrived at the front door, which was a huge plate-glass entrance located under a canopy an architect had designed to resemble the sail of a clipper ship. A tall canister ashtray sat beside the door, overflowing with plastic coffee cups, cigarette butts and ATM slips.

  I pulled out the small envelope I’d picked up at the hardware store. From inside, I slid a credit card–shaped access key. I approached the magnetic security slot. Holding my breath, I zipped the card through the slot and hoped it worked.

  A horrendous buzzer sounded, making us all jump, but I grabbed the door handle and pulled. Miraculously, the door opened. The card had worked.

  “Cool,” said Rawlins.

  Conscious of the overhead cameras that recorded our arrival and perhaps broadcast it to a nearby security team, we crossed the lobby with manufactured confidence. The lobby was so sterile it might have been decorated by a scrub nurse. A single banana tree grew in a huge pot near the elevator.

  We reached the elevator, and Orlando hit the “up” button. The elevator doors opened and we stepped into the car. Brinker lived on the top floor. Spike poked his head out of my bag and suggested we snap it up.