Deadly Force

by Beverly Long

Mrs. Vernelli whirled around, both hands firmly gripped around a roasting pan. She stared first at her youngest son and then at Claire. She opened her mouth but no words came out. The woman’s slightly plump cheeks were pink and Claire didn’t know if it was from the heat of the oven, the pleasure of seeing her youngest son or the shock of seeing Tessa’s little sister in her kitchen. To her credit, Mrs. Vernelli recovered quickly and offered them one of the most genuinely warm smiles that Claire had ever seen.

  She set down the roasting pan and crossed the room. Standing on her tiptoes, she hugged Sam. Then she extended her arm and shook Claire’s hand. “Claire. It’s good to see you again. I’m so glad you could come.”

  “It was kind of you to include me,” she said.

  Mr. Vernelli, who had put down his spoon, waved his hand as if it was nothing. Perhaps Sam routinely dragged women home. “I’m Tom. We were sorry to hear about the trouble at your apartment, Claire. Your parents must be very concerned.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, thinking she better tell her parents soon. She took a second glance at Tom Vernelli. He had twenty-five years on Sam, but his still-handsome face had the same strong bone structure, his eyes danced with the same keen intelligence.

  “How are your folks?” Mrs. Vernelli asked.

  “Busy.” It was the standard answer. The week before she’d left for Chicago, her mother had been named Volunteer of the Year by a local group. They’d all gone to the awards dinner. It had been a painful reminder of how far apart she and her mother had grown. When the presenter had read off the list of organizations that her mother supported, Claire hadn’t recognized more than half. She’d wanted to ask her father, but he’d been out in the hall, cell phone to his ear, negotiating the purchase of another company.

  “So, do I get to see my niece?” Sam asked, edging toward the bassinet. He bent down and brushed a kiss across the woman’s forehead and then roughly hugged his brother who’d stood up. Claire was struck by the resemblance between the two men. Both tall and handsome as heck.

  “Claire,” Sam said. “This gorgeous creature is my sister-in-law, Joanna. The big oaf next to her is my brother, Jake.”

  Both of them flashed a smile, but she didn’t miss that Jake’s gaze was a little more assessing, a little more curious.

  “How’s she doing?” Sam asked, pointing at the bassinet.

  “Take a look for yourself,” Joanna said, her voice warm with maternal pride. She shifted and leaned toward the bassinet. When she winced, her husband put his hand on her arm.

  “Let me,” he said. Then the man carefully reached his big hands into the bassinet and lifted out the baby. She was swaddled in a soft yellow blanket. When he made a motion to hand the sweet bundle to his brother, Sam backed up a step. “No, you hold her,” Sam said. “I’ll break her.”

  Joanna laughed. “No, you won’t.”

  “You don’t know that,” Sam said, sounding very serious. He looked at Claire and she thought it might be real panic that she saw on his face. “Help me out, here, okay?” he said. He looked back to his brother. “Give her to Claire.”

  Jake rolled his eyes and then carefully, very carefully, placed the precious bundle in her curved arms. She stared at the round little face, the wisps of strawberry-blond hair and the rosebud mouth, and fell instantly and thoroughly in love. “Oh, she’s perfect,” she said.

  And then Sam came close and bent his head. Cautiously, he took one finger and lifted the edge of the blanket away from the baby’s face. He stared for a minute, then looked up at Jake. “You did good,” he said, his voice soft.

  Jake looked at his wife, his eyes filled with love. “I did nothing,” he said. “Joanna did it all.”

  “He had the fun part,” Joanna replied, her tone dry.

  Mr. and Mrs. Vernelli, their arms wrapped around each other’s back, laughed. Mr. Vernelli winked at his wife of many years and she blushed like a young woman.

  Claire felt a little piece of her heart break. This was what a family should be. People who loved, fiercely and proudly. And to her utter embarrassment, her eyes filled with tears. She tried to blink them away, but Sam, the observant fool he was, saw her.

  “Hey,” he said, “what’s wrong?”

  Claire looked around the room. Sam’s father, who obviously felt ill at ease with a woman’s tears, fidgeted, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His mother, her eyes an equal mixture of question and concern, stared at her. Jake, chewing his bottom lip, turned to Joanna, who shrugged her delicate shoulders. Claire settled her glance on Sam. His eyes were filled with something she couldn’t define, but it warmed her soul, like the sun shining through the car window had warmed her face. “I’m just so happy,” she said, her voice thick with tears, “for all of you.”

  An awkward silence hung in the air and Claire wished she could sink into the floor. Then Joanna, her eyes suddenly full of understanding, patted the couch next to her. “Come sit next to me. We’ll admire the baby together and let the men wait on us.”

  “Why should today be any different?” Mr. Vernelli asked and then made a big production of protecting his head, like he expected his wife to swing a cast iron skillet. Sam and Jake laughed and as easily as that, the moment passed. Claire, careful not to jostle the baby, sank down on the couch.

  “Thank you,” she whispered to Joanna.

  “You’ll get used to it,” Joanna whispered back. “It can be a bit overwhelming at first.”

  “You got that right,” Claire said, rocking the baby gently in her arms. She watched while Jake began to unload the dishwasher and Sam, grabbing milk and butter in one hand and an electric mixer in the other, approached the steaming pan of boiled potatoes. “They really fill up a kitchen,” she said.

  Joanna wrinkled her nose. “Nothing sexier than a man in an apron.”

  Claire had a quick and fleeting vision of Sam wearing nothing but an apron. “Uh, yes,” she managed.

  “Imagine this,” Joanna said, winking at her. “The first time I saw the two of them together, they were playing basketball. With their shirts off. It was ninety degrees outside, they were sweating, and I was drooling. It was quite an event.”

  “Do you think they know?” Claire whispered, studying Sam and Jake as they completed their tasks.

  “I suspect they do,” Joanna said. “It’s just not important to them. By the way, does Sam know you’re interested?”

  She thought about denying it, but knew she wasn’t that good of an actress. “It wouldn’t dawn on him. I’m Tessa’s little sister.”

  “I’m sorry about your sister,” Joanna said. “It must have been horrible. But it was a long time ago. She and Sam were very young.”

  Claire bit her lower lip. “I’m pretty sure he’s still in love with her.”

  Joanna’s pretty green eyes shifted to Sam. He had finished mashing the potatoes and was now scooping out big spoonfuls into a yellow bowl. His mother stood at his side, supervising. When he pretended to stick a finger into the potatoes, his mother whacked his shoulder with a wooden spoon. Joanna smiled and shrugged. “He wouldn’t have brought you here if he didn’t have feelings—”

  “Food’s ready,” Mrs. Vernelli interrupted. She stood next to the table and gestured for them to come.

  Joanna reached for the baby and then gently laid her down in the bassinet. “For you,” she finished.

  * * *

  THE BABY SLEPT through lunch, awakening just as Sheryl Vernelli cleared off the last dessert plates. When Maggie let out a little squawk, Jake’s and Sam’s heads swiveled, like they were ready to spring into immediate action. Joanna, looking infinitely more relaxed, pushed her chair back, calmly walked over to the bassinet and lifted the crying baby out of her crib. The two of them settled in the padded rocking chair in the corner of the large family room and Joanna discreetly raised the corner of her shirt.

  Jake watched for a minute and then, apparently satisfied that all was well, made a big production out of standing up and patting his full
stomach. “Dad,” he said, “I’ve misplaced my needle-nose pliers. You wouldn’t happen to have an extra pair?”

  Tom Vernelli scratched his chin. “I’m not sure, Son. Why don’t I take a walk out to the garage with you and we’ll look.”

  Jake nodded and looked pointedly at Sam. “Sam, have you checked on your dog lately?”

  “Uh, no. That’s a good idea,” Sam added. He pushed his chair back from the table. When he walked past his mom, he kissed her forehead. “Just leave the dishes. Jake and I’ll handle them.” When he walked past Claire’s chair, he put a hand on her shoulder. Light. Impersonal. And she felt the heat down to her toes.

  “You doing okay?” he asked.

  “Stuffed,” she said, desperately trying to focus on her stomach and ignore the strength and masculine feel of his large hand. His nails were trimmed short and, if she wasn’t mistaken, his little finger had been broken at least once.

  “You got up early after a pretty late night,” he said. “Why don’t you try to snag a nap?”

  She turned her face up and her eyes met his. “You got less sleep than I did,” she reminded him.

  “I guess that’s true,” he said. He looked very serious. He stared at her for several seconds and the kitchen suddenly seemed very quiet. Then he smiled. “I’ll wrestle you for the couch later,” he said. He lifted his hand off her shoulder and patted the top of her head.

  Like he did to Nightmare every time the darn dog walked by.

  In a clatter of bootheels on ceramic tile, the Vernelli men left. The quiet in the kitchen was absolute except the occasional gentle slurping from the rocking chair. Sheryl Vernelli motioned for Claire to follow her into the family room. The older woman took the corner of the green couch and Claire settled into the overstuffed brown leather chair.

  Joanna looked up from her baby and flashed a smile. “You’ll have to forgive them. They simply can’t stop being cops.”

  Mrs. Vernelli coughed into her hand and smiled. Claire decided she hadn’t liked anyone as immediately as Joanna in a long time. “Thanks. I appreciate your not pretending that they’re not out there discussing me.”

  Mrs. Vernelli picked up a book off the table next to her, thumbed the pages, then put the book back down. “I must say,” she offered, somewhat hesitantly, “I haven’t seen Sam this serious for a long time. He’s normally full of jokes.”

  It seemed like she’d barely seen him smile. “I guess he’ll be relieved when I’m out of his hair.”

  “I suppose,” said Mrs. Vernelli as she picked up the hardcover book one more time and tapped her nail against the spine. It reminded Claire of how Sam rubbed the tips of his index finger and his thumb together when he was nervous.

  What in heavens did Mrs. Vernelli have to be nervous about?

  * * *

  CLAIRE WOKE UP when Nightmare jumped on top of her. “Hey, you big lug,” she said, pulling her arm from beneath the warm yellow comforter to rub the dog’s fur.

  He started to turn in circles. She knew what that meant. She had about two minutes before he started to howl. She didn’t want him to wake the baby. “Oh, fine. I’ll take you out.”

  She swung her legs over the edge of the bed. It couldn’t be much past dawn and the house had cooled down during the night. She opened her suitcase and pulled out blue jeans and a sweatshirt. She quickly stepped out of her pajamas and into her clothes. She ran a hand through her hair. Her brush was in her purse and she’d left that downstairs.

  “Let’s go,” she said, opening the door. “Be quiet,” she warned, as the dog zoomed past her. No doubt everyone else in the house would still be sleeping.

  When they got to the back door, Claire slipped Nightmare’s leash onto his collar. They left the house and she was really glad she’d worn her sweatshirt. Good Lord, it was cold enough that she could see her breath. She pulled the hood of her sweatshirt up and stuck the hand that didn’t hold Nightmare’s leash into her jeans pocket.

  She and Nightmare walked around the yard until Nightmare found a spot to do his thing. When the dog finished, she rubbed his head. “You’re a good boy,” she said. “You really had to go, didn’t you?”

  Nightmare thumped his tail, looking proud. “What do you say we take a walk, sweetie?” She rubbed her fingers across the dollar bills in her pocket and knew she had enough for coffee. If she remembered correctly, there was a gas station-slash-convenience store on the corner, about two blocks away. She pulled gently on Nightmare’s chain, but the dog yanked his head the other direction and let out two sharp barks.

  Claire looked and she could see Sam, dressed in dark blue warm-up pants and a gray sweatshirt running toward her. His arms were pumping, his legs flying, and it made her heart start thumping.

  Slow down, Sam. Let me enjoy the view.

  Still a block away, he held up his arm, letting her know that he’d seen her. She watched his big body move toward her and her mouth felt dry. My, my, he was a fine specimen of a man.

  “Morning,” she said, when he got close enough to hear. She hoped her voice sounded more casual than she felt. With his hair ruffled by the wind, his cheeks red from the cold and his chest heaving up and down in flat-out exhaustion, he made her cold body feel warm in certain spots.

  “Good morning,” he answered, his hands braced on his thighs as he struggled for breath. He straightened up and walked around her in circles, no doubt getting his heart rate to slow down.

  What was she going to do about hers?

  “How far did you run?” she asked.

  “About five miles.”

  “All at that pace?”

  He shook his head, almost looking embarrassed. “I was a sprinter in high school. Over the years, I’ve learned to slow it down so I can increase my distance, but I still love it when I can relive my youth.”

  She wrapped her arms around her middle. “You say that like you’re in your eighties.”

  “I’m almost thirty-three. There’s a big difference between that and seventeen.”

  “I guess.”

  He studied her. “You know, that makes me close to nine years older than you.”

  What was his point?

  “We’re at different stages of our lives,” he added, his breathing steadier now.

  “What stage are you in?” she asked, really wanting to know. Sam was a master at not talking about himself.

  “That’s not important,” he said, disappointing her. “What is important is that you’re in your early twenties. You’ve got plenty of time before you need to be thinking about things.”

  “Things?”

  He waved a hand. “Like marriage and babies. I mean,” he said, “it’s not like you’re Joanna’s age. She’s past thirty and just having her first baby. That’s pretty common these days.”

  “I suppose.” She looked away.

  He stepped to the side so that she was once again looking at him. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “I’m cold,” she said. “I’m going in.”

  She got two steps before he gently grabbed her arm and turned her to face him. “Please tell me,” he said.

  “I guess I just get tired of your being so focused on age, especially my age. It’s a number, okay? That’s all it is.” She tightened the strings of her hood, hiding more of her face. He was looking at her so intently that it was like he was looking into her soul.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her tight against his chest. He felt warm and solid and he smelled like fresh air and sweaty male.

  He shifted her in his arms until she was standing in front of him. He pushed back the sides of her hood and with two fingers under her chin, tilted her head up. “Let’s talk about something else. The other night, when I picked you up at Mission’s house, you said that you had both been nominated for an award. Tell me about it.”

  “It’s a design contest, sponsored by the Chicago Advertising Association. I guess it’s a pretty big deal. The grand-prize winner wal
ks away with a $15,000 check.”

  He pulled back. “What are your chances?”

  “There are six finalists, so I guess statistically, I have a little over a 15 percent chance of winning. But in reality, it’s a lot less. I’m sure I have the least experience of any of the finalists. Their designs are probably much better.”

  “What does Mission’s design look like?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. Several of us from the agency entered, but none of us shared our designs. In our business, we do a lot of brainstorming. Somebody comes up with an idea and then everybody throws out suggestions, building upon the original idea. It’s just how we’re wired. But in this particular contest, entrants have to sign a statement that they haven’t collaborated with anyone—that the design is solely their own creation. I guess none of us wanted to accidentally step over the line.”

  “When will you know who won?”

  “Not until the awards dinner on Monday. Most everyone from the agency is going to attend.” She rubbed her hands together. “Come on, let’s go inside. Even Nightmare looks cold.”

  “Come on,” he said, gathering up Nightmare’s leash. “I’m betting Mom has coffee started by now and Dad’s probably mixing up the pancake batter.”

  “Are his pancakes as good as yours?”

  “No, but don’t let him know that.”

  Chapter Nine

  Sam and Claire left right after breakfast and were back in Chicago by noon. Claire was in her bedroom changing into work clothes when she heard Sam’s cell phone ring.

  She finished zipping her dress and walked out of the room. Sam was filling Nightmare’s water dish and listening to the person on the other end. “Where?” he asked. Then more listening. “Okay, thanks, Cruz. I’ll let Claire know and ask her if the description rings a bell.” He hung up.

  “Let Claire know what?” she asked.

  “Some of your stuff turned up at a pawnshop north of downtown. Little place on Sheraton Road. Had the television and one of the necklaces.”

  “What was that about a description?”