by Merry Jones
The stories went on, each accompanied by gulps of coffee and bites of glazed donuts, each topping the other. Eli’s elusive identity, his vague career progressing from repo man to possibly undercover cop. To maybe secret agent or even government spy. I could see how the labels could fit Eli, his easy movements and taunting eyes. But most of what Nick and Sam said was playful conjecture, affectionate lore they themselves had created. Listening to them, trying to sift facts from fantasy, I gathered that Eli had served with the Army Rangers and now professed to pursue a career in photojournalism. A freelancer, he traveled constantly, followed story to story without forming ties or planting roots. The brothers, of course, saw this job as a perfect cover for a CIA or Homeland Security or FDA or any other brand of secret agent.
With Eli’s training, they also speculated that he’d make a perfect assassin.
They went on recounting anecdotes, and, chewing a donut, I thought about Eli, dangerous, dressed all in black, carrying a knife in his waistband. And I realized that, yes, Eli might actually be an undercover agent. In fact, he might be working on a case now. Here, in our area. Maybe he was working for the CIA or Homeland Security. And—oh God—maybe he’d been working with other government agents. Like Jennifer Harris from Homeland Security, who’d just coincidentally been found dead on my patio. I took a gulp, almost choked on my coffee, trying to clear my thoughts.
But it made sense, didn’t it? Eli might not be here for our wedding or to meet our baby; he might be here for work. Maybe he was supposed to have been Agent Harris’ contact. Or maybe—the thought made my heart stop, but there it was: the other possibility. Eli might not have been her contact; he might have been her killer.
No. Good God. I shut my eyes, had to stop this line of thinking. Eli wasn’t an assassin. He was Nick’s kid brother, his blood. Eli’s eyes danced—would a hit man have eyes that could polka? And Eli looked like Nick; his voice sounded, his touch felt, like Nick’s. A man like Nick couldn’t—no, correction: He could. But he wouldn’t be a professional killer. I told myself that Eli was a photographer, that the only thing he shot was pictures. That my suspicions were the result of the late hour and the exaggerated tales.
And the tales were still being told. Sam was recounting Eli’s skill with a knife, giving details about the way he could carve up a Thanksgiving turkey, whittle a walking stick, bone a bluefish, gut a deer, amputate a wounded buddy’s arm, and the list was just getting started when he was interrupted by a knock at the door.
It had to be Tony. Finally. It had taken him an awfully long time to find a parking spot. Nick started to get up, but I was closer to the door, so I was the one who opened it. And I was the one who screamed.
FORTY-FOUR
TONY COULD BARELY STAND; his face was covered with blood. Blood spilled from a cut at his hairline, clumped around a nasty gash behind his ear, oozed out of split lips. His left eyebrow and his nostrils were coated with a dark red crust. I reached out to help him inside as Nick appeared, responding to my shriek. Sam stood behind Nick, his mouth hanging open, squeezing a donut.
Sam was the first to speak. “Holy shit. What the hell?”
Stumbling into the foyer, Tony tossed Sam his car keys. “What does it look like? I stopped and got a makeover.” Holding his ribs, he let himself fall against Nick; together they hobbled down the hall to the easy chair in the living room. I got some ice, the first-aid kit, a few damp washcloths, and followed, began dabbing away blood, putting cool pressure on Tony’s wounds. The cuts were long but not deep; he might not need stitches. I gave him an ice pack for his eyebrow. The whole time I was giving first aid, Nick kept asking questions.
“Who did this? Where did it happen?” Somehow, Nick had gotten his jacket on, was ready to gather a posse and go out and search.
“Forget it, Nick.” Tony’s words were distorted; his lips didn’t want to move.
“Tell me what happened.”
“Two guys hit me.”
“What did they look like?”
“I don’t know. They were young. White—”
“Tall? Short? What were they wearing?”
“Nick, it’s no use. They’re gone. Don’t even bother—”
“Don’t tell me what to do. I can get cars combing the area in two minutes—”
“Easy, Nick.” Sam put a hand on Nick’s arm, interrupting. “Everybody take it easy. Tony, just tell us what happened.”
Tony watched Nick with his one open eye. “I don’t know. I got a great spot. I parked at the corner, right on Fifth Street. I got out, locked the car, and boom.”
“Boom?”
“I went about three steps and something hit me, boom, smack in the side of the head.” He touched the cut near his ear and winced.
Nick frowned. “I’m going to call it in.” He started for his phone, but Tony grabbed his arm.
“Forget it, Nick. It was just a mugging.”
Nick frowned. “Just a mugging?”
“They happen every day around here. You know that. I don’t feel like dealing with all those cops and their questions.”
“Really.” Nick crossed his arms. “All those cops are trying to protect people like you—”
“Hey, Nick. Don’t take it personally.” Tony winced as I pressed on his sore cheek. “It’s just not worth it; the cops never find guys like these.”
Oops, Nick would definitely take that personally. And, sure enough, Nick pulled over a wingback chair and sat facing Tony as if preparing for an interrogation. “So, you’re an expert on police effectiveness?”
“Come on, Nick.” Tony closed his eyes as I took away the ice pack and cleaned his eyebrow. “I’m just not up to it, okay?”
“So, tell me again. You’d just parked Sam’s brand-new Lexus. You were only three steps away from it when two young white guys mugged you. But for some reason, although they must have seen you get out of a late-model, top-of-the-line car, they didn’t take the car keys.”
“Wait—that doesn’t make sense, does it?” Sam pulled the other wingback up beside Nick’s. “You’d think they’d take the car.”
Tony was trembling; I got an afghan off the sofa, wrapped it around him. “Nick,” I said. “He might be in shock.”
“He’ll be all right.” Nick didn’t look at me. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, waiting.
Tony’s good eye darted from Nick to Sam. “They took the keys.”
Sam shook his head. “But you have them. You said—”
“They took them and one guy went into the car while the other one kept me down.”
“What did he do in the car?” Nick was in his element, probing. “Could you see him?”
“He was looking for something. He went into the glove box, flashed a light under the seats. Opened the hood, the trunk.”
“Oh shit.” Sam was worried. “They didn’t, like, plant a bomb or anything?”
We all looked at Sam. Why would he think somebody might plant a bomb in his car? Where did the idea come from?
“I didn’t see anything. They seemed to be looking for something, not leaving something.”
“And they didn’t take the car.”
“No, Sam. Your car’s fine, right where I left it.”
“And they just gave you the keys back? Like, ‘thanks, here are the keys’?”
“They dropped them on the ground.”
“So they didn’t take the car,” Nick pressed. “What did they take?”
Tony shrugged. “I’m not sure. They searched me. They emptied my pockets and went through my wallet. I suppose they took the usual. My cash.”
Grimacing, Tony leaned forward, reached into his pant pocket and retrieved his wallet. Nick reached for it.
“You mean they gave the wallet back?” Again, Sam was confused.
Tony shivered. “Just like the keys. When they were done, they threw it on the ground. I must have picked up everything. I don’t really remember.”
“Your credit cards are here. And they apparently
missed this.”
Tony gaped at the wad of cash in Nick’s hand. “Look, Nick, I don’t know what you’re trying to imply. I don’t have any idea who those animals were and I don’t have a clue what they wanted.”
“Nick.” I put my arm around Tony. “Tony should see a doctor—”
“Uh-uh, no, ma’am, no way.” Tony shook his head. “No doctors, no police, no thank you. I’ll be fine.” He held the ice pack to his eyebrow. “Aren’t I supposed to get a steak for this?”
“Fat chance.” Sam grunted. “Any steak around here, we’re not wasting it on your sorry eye.”
“As usual, Sam, your heart is outweighed only by your stomach.” Tony struggled, even then, to hold his own.
“Look. I always said you should learn to fight. You got to be tough, especially considering your special preferences.”
“Lay off, Sam.” I stood close to Tony, protecting him. “If he’d fought back, they might have killed him.”
Sam winked at me, no doubt intending to remind me that, unlike Tony, he was straight and lustful, but when his eyelid flickered, it looked uncontrolled, like he might have a bug in his eye.
“Did they say anything?” Nick went on with his investigation.
“Yeah.” Tony nodded. “It was weird. They asked, ‘Where is it?’ Told me I had no idea what I’d gotten into, that I’d better hand it over.” He looked from Nick to Sam, from Sam to me, then back at Nick. “I have no idea what they were talking about.”
“Repeat exactly what they said.”
“I can’t exactly. They were punching me and then I was on the ground, trying to get them off me.”
“Okay.” Nick rolled his eyes, impatient. “Just repeat what you remember.”
Tony shook his head. “Like I said. They wanted to know where ‘it’ was. The heavier one kept telling me to give it up. I told them I had no idea what they were talking about. I asked what they wanted. They just kept repeating, ‘Give it up.’ And, ‘Where the fuck is it?’ And when they finally decided I didn’t have whatever it was on me, they said they’d be back and I’d better find it because until I gave it to them, they were going to make my life hell.”
For a moment, we were all quiet. Nick stood, turned toward the wall and walked away from us. At the wall, he turned back to us. We watched him, waiting for his conclusions. “Eli’s in town.” That was all he said.
FORTY-FIVE
TONY’S JAW DROPPED. “WHAT?” He started to smile but stopped, put a hand to his bloody lips. “Eli? Where? Wait—how do you know? Did you see him? Was he here?”
Nick didn’t answer. He looked at Sam, who met his eyes with complete comprehension. Apparently, Tony and I were missing something.
Sam nodded. “He’s right, Tony. Eli and you are only a few years apart. You look alike, especially in the dark.”
Tony leaned back against the headrest. “So you think they mistook me for Eli?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.” Nick shrugged. “Everyone got us confused as kids, but especially you two. And, if they thought you were Eli, well, who knows who they were or what they wanted? You know Eli.”
“Shit.” Sam shook his head. “Nick’s right. If those guys thought you were Eli, it would explain everything. Who knows what he’s working on? Who knows what he might be carrying? We assume it’s small, since they thought you had it on you. Could be some secret formula. A hit list. Hell, could be some new micro-biological weapon or a chemical. Who knows what Eli might have on him?”
Well, I thought, he might have a knife. At that moment, as I was taping gauze behind Tony’s ear, it occurred to me that the mugging was Tony’s second tussle; he’d also been accosted days before by the dead agent. A question tickled the back of my mind, some fragment of a thought, but Tony was asking me about Eli, wanting to hear all about his clandestine visit, and I had to tell the story all over again. Nick sat on the sofa, frowning in thought, and Sam poured brandy and passed us each a snifter. One snort wouldn’t hurt Luke, I thought, and I took a long swallow, closed my eyes, felt the soothing heat sliding down, warming my belly. And, for a while, although I’d sensed it had been important, my question slipped from my mind.
FORTY-SIX
TONY SWALLOWED SOME TYLENOL and finally fell asleep in the recliner around two. Sam had already dozed off, snoring on the sofa under an afghan. Soon, Luke would be up and hungry, and I didn’t know if it was even worth it to go to bed. But I went upstairs with Nick and was brushing my teeth when I remembered my question.
“Maybe it was the jogger!” I blurted it out, but Nick had no idea what I’d said; my mouth was full of toothpaste. Excited, I speed- rinsed my mouth, talking the whole time. I was sure I’d figured out a key part of what had happened.
“The jogger?” Even after he understood my words, Nick had no idea what they meant. He lay back on his pillows, staring at the ceiling.
“Remember? She ran right into Tony and fell on him—remember what he said? How they held on to each other, how they shared a moment? So, I was thinking. What if she didn’t really trip—what if Agent Harris deliberately bumped into him, you know, pretending to fall—”
“Why would she do that?” Nick rubbed his eyes.
“I don’t know. But she was a Homeland Security agent. What if somebody was chasing her? A terrorist or something. What if she knew she was about to be caught—maybe she even knew she was going to be killed. And she’s running away and she sees this guy getting his newspaper, and she thinks, hey, maybe she has a chance to protect whatever she was carrying—”
“You’re saying she planted something on Tony?” Nick’s voice was clipped.
“You think it’s a dumb idea.” Oh well.
His eyes moved across the room slowly, landing on mine. “No. In fact, I think you’re a genius.”
With that, he was out of bed and at the hamper, pulling on the pair of jeans he’d just taken off. “When’s the last time you did the laundry?”
Was he serious? “This morning.”
“Really? Our hamper’s pretty full.”
“I did the kids’ stuff.”
“So what about the rest of it?”
I was getting annoyed. “Nick, if you want the laundry done, you can run a load yourself once in a while. I have enough to do, especially without Ivy and with your brothers staying here and our wed—”
But he was out the bedroom door, heading down the hall toward the steps. “Where are Tony’s clothes?” He assumed I was behind him. “The ones he was wearing that morning?”
Oh. I began to understand. He wasn’t criticizing my housekeeping; he was looking for clues. “I don’t know. Probably on the floor somewhere. He leaves everything where it falls.” I scurried after Nick, rounding the banister, pounding down the stairs. Finally, we came to the living room. Oliver, sleeping on the floor beside Tony’s feet, opened a groggy eye, blinked at us, yawned, settled down again. Sam snored on the sofa, his brandy snifter on its side, next to him, licked clean.
FORTY-SEVEN
TONY’S CLOTHES WERE CRUMPLED in a pile between the book- shelf and the sofa.
“What was he wearing that morning?” Nick asked as if I should know. As if it were my responsibility to keep track of what people wore. The worst part was that I actually knew; at least I had an idea. Tony slept in his underwear. I hadn’t found that out on purpose; the man was sleeping in my living room, and Oliver tended to run in there when I wanted to take him out in the morning. Anyway, going out to get the newspaper, Tony would have put on his pants. And whenever we’d had coffee in the morning, he’d been wearing sweatpants, the same pair with the same old gray hooded sweatshirt. I was pretty sure he’d have worn that ensemble the morning he’d encountered Agent Harris.
Sam’s snores shook the walls, rattled the windows, but nobody woke up as we turned on the lights and rifled through Tony’s worn and soiled clothes. Tossing aside underwear and T-shirts, socks and sweats, I finally retrieved the sweats. Nick examined them carefully, turning out p
ockets, shaking out fabric.
“Damn.” He dropped the clothes back onto the floor. “Nothing.”
Sighing, I gathered up the rest of the clothes and brought them into the center of the room. Maybe whatever had been in the pockets had fallen into the pile. Or maybe I’d been wrong about what Tony had been wearing.
Together, we searched the clothing, item by item, not knowing what we were looking for. Maybe a key? A coin? I thought of Tony searching for his lost quarters. Or maybe a stamp, like in that old movie Charade. Or maybe something we wouldn’t even recognize. A computer chip or some new technological device.
“Look for anything, no matter how small, even the size of a pinhead.”
I found some Life Savers, and Nick found a ChapStick, a comb, a condom, some breath spray and a piece of butterscotch hard candy.
“How about this?” I passed along a button that had been lurking in a shirt pocket.
Nick held it up to the light, turning it slowly. “Huh. Look’s like a button. Feels like a button.” He bit it. “Tastes like a button.”
The clothes, now scattered across the living room floor, revealed nothing unusual, certainly nothing that, might have cost a government agent her life. Nor did the items on the coffee table: Tony’s watch, keys, class ring and the wallet the muggers had already searched and rejected.
Nick stared at the pile, as if expecting something to jump out.
“So, there’s nothing here. Sorry, I guess I was wrong. She didn’t plant anything.”
“It was an excellent theory, though. It makes perfect sense. In fact, I’m annoyed that I didn’t come up with it myself.” He gazed at me, his eyes gleaming and proud.
Wow. Nick thought my theory was excellent. I felt myself blush.
“Well. It’s so late it’s early. Would you consider accompanying me to bed, Ms. Hayes?” Nick offered his hand, and I took it.
“It would be my pleasure, Detective Stiles.”
As we turned out the light, Sam and Oliver snored in harmony and Tony, out cold, was beyond being disturbed. Nick and I headed up the stairs, arms around each other’s waists. I thought I might have two hours before Luke woke up. I might even sleep.
