Bed of Bones (A Sloane Monroe Novel, Book Five)

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  “I do something for you, you do something for me,” I said. “And don’t lead me astray. Give it to me straight. I can handle it.”

  “You don’t understand what you’re asking.”

  “Yes, I do. And if you knew all the assumptions I’ve made over the last year on my own, you’d tell me just to keep me from poking my head in places you don’t want it to be.”

  He took another swig of coffee.

  “Do we have a deal?” I asked.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  I interpreted this as a yes.

  “What’s Giovanni’s role in the family business? Does he run it? What about you—what’s yours? And is there any chance, even a slight one, that Giovanni was the target yesterday? Is any of this somehow related to your family?”

  He jerked the chair backward and stood, wrapping a firm grip around my arm. He pulled up, yanking me out of my seat, pulling me close, his coffee-flavored breath filling my ear. “Keep your voice down. Not another word.”

  A man dressed in a plaid flannel shirt with a long, thick beard glanced in my direction, his eyes focused on the firm grip Carlo had on me. “Unhand the lady.”

  Carlo spoke through gritted teeth. “Stay out of it.”

  With his back to the man, Carlo didn’t see him rise, but he heard the man’s chair as it dragged across the floor, the grating sound like fingernails on a chalkboard.

  In a standing position, Plaid Shirt Guy had twice the girth and was a foot taller. He thumbed in Carlo’s direction. “Ma’am, is this guy bothering you?”

  “I…he’s…no. I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “You sure?”

  I glared at Carlo.

  He released my arm.

  Plaid Shirt Guy looked at Carlo then the door. Carlo got the idea. He walked away, turning before he stepped outside. “Are you coming?”

  My heart thumped wildly. I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I just stood there. The door slammed shut. I still hadn’t moved. Plaid Shirt Guy muttered something. A question. But my focus wasn’t on him—my phone was vibrating. I reached over, grabbing it off the table. I had one text message from Carlo in capital letters: DO YOU WANT ANSWERS OR DON’T YOU?

  I stepped outside. Droplets of water fell from a tumultuous sky, pelting my face. A black Porsche skidded to a stop beside me. The passenger door opened. Carlo said, “Get in.”

  A wave of nausea ripped through my body.

  Have I crossed the line? Have I pushed too far? What’s happening now?

  “Where are we going?”

  “Sloane, you’re trembling and you’re soaking wet. Get in the car. There’s nothing to fear. You know me.”

  I knew he was Giovanni’s brother. I knew he was FBI. But did I know him? Really?

  I didn’t.

  I got in anyway.

  CHAPTER 14

  “I always wondered if this conversation would come about,” Daniela said. “Only I thought you’d be having it with Giovanni and not with me.”

  The two of us sat next to each other on a sofa in Giovanni’s office. Daniela crossed one leg over the other, resting a hand on top of her knee. An emerald ring was looped through a silver chain around her neck. It sparkled like it had just been shined. I hadn’t picked up on it the day before at the hospital. I was sure it was just one of many things I’d missed.

  “I’m guessing Carlo dropped me off so we could talk, so why am I here?”

  She strained a smile, fidgeted with a crystal button that had popped out of the hole on her blouse. “They know who you are, what you do for a living.”

  “They—who? The Mob?”

  There it was. I’d said it.

  She met my gaze and smiled. “Cosa Nostra. Yes.”

  Finally. The truth.

  “All right, they know who I am. So what?”

  “Personal relationships—they complicate things.”

  “In what way? Giovanni has always kept his business dealings from me.”

  “It’s not just a business. It’s everything. Lately he’s been preoccupied—becoming soft. He’s not himself.”

  “You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

  “It can be.”

  Her voice was flat, monotone.

  “From what Carlo told me, you sound a lot like your father.”

  “I sound like someone who cares about your life,” she said.

  “Meaning?”

  “My family’s concerns about you are twofold. You’re much more than the average private investigator. The longer you’ve been with Giovanni, the more questions you ask. You’ve been digging, looking into our family background.”

  “How did you—?”

  She swished a hand through the air. “It’s not important.”

  “Giovanni was right, wasn’t he? I am in danger.”

  She shook her head. “No one has any wish to harm you. My father is aware there was a time when you saved my life. My mother is dead. I am his only daughter. He’s grateful.”

  “Your brothers refuse to tell me about your family. Why are you?”

  She leaned back, folded her arms. “Several months ago Giovanni went to see my father. He wanted out. He felt he’d put in his time over the years, and, if you want my opinion, I believe it happened because he felt you slipping away.”

  I had no idea.

  “How did your father react?” I asked.

  “You don’t make a deal with the devil and walk away.”

  She was right. You don’t walk. You run.

  “Are you comparing your own father to the devil?”

  She snickered like I’d just made a silly joke. “I love my father, but he isn’t the kind of person you trifle with.”

  “I take it he wasn’t keen on Giovanni’s request.”

  “He said no. In fact his exact words were he’d ‘have to be dead before I’ll allow you to step down.’ Giovanni was outraged, as you can imagine. He threatened my father. When he left, my father sent some guys to Park City to find out what had changed, why my brother was acting like a different person. That’s when they learned about you. Before then, they had no idea you existed.”

  The room was cool, but a hot, tingling sensation tore through my body. They’d seen me—they’d seen us—together. They’d followed me. For how long, I didn’t know. I didn’t want to know. The thought of outsiders spying on me, capturing intimate, private moments of my life took me back to a memory of Sam Reids, the man who murdered my sister—a serial killer, and my stalker. It was a mental place I didn’t ever want to go again.

  “The men you say came here, was this a few months ago, around the time you disappeared?”

  She nodded.

  “Giovanni found out they were here, of course, only he didn’t know why. When they found the answers they were looking for, they left. And I did too.”

  “Your father’s men took you?”

  “Not exactly. I went with them.”

  “Wait—what? Giovanni said you’d been kidnapped.”

  The way she smiled while recalling the events surrounding her now “alleged” kidnapping rubbed me in all the wrong ways. It was like she relished it—the attention—the chase. Growing up she may have been a shiny beam in her daddy’s eye, but I was willing to bet her brothers were awarded most of the attention. After all, they were daddy’s little protégés.

  “At first, I suppose I can understand why my brothers thought I’d been taken,” she said. “I didn’t say goodbye. Giovanni came home, and I was gone.”

  “Why didn’t you say something? Why put him through what you did?”

  “I was with my father in New York City, and he didn’t want them to know where I’d gone. Not at first. I thought I had time, at least a few days before my brothers came looking for me. But once Giovanni detected I was gone, he began searching.” She looked away. “It was stupid of me, I know.”

  “And when they found you—what then?”

  “My father handled it. He said he was just an old man who missed his daug
hter, wanted her back home. He tried to convince them they worried for nothing. Carlo believed him, but then, he always does. Giovanni didn’t. He’d tried several times to get in touch with my father. My father didn’t answer. It was unlike him.”

  “I don’t understand. Why all the secrecy? Why couldn’t you be honest about why you left?”

  “Neither one of them would have sanctioned it, if they knew the real reason I was there.”

  “Which was?” I asked.

  “I volunteered.”

  “To what—work for your father?”

  “In a way. After you left the hospital yesterday, I spoke with Giovanni. I know he thinks the explosion was a personal attack on him, that somehow he’s being shown what happens when you try to leave the family. He’s wrong. Whoever is behind this cruel, sadistic act, it isn’t affiliated with us.”

  “You told him, right?”

  “I…not yet. Carlo brought you here today for a reason.” She paused then said, “I’m taking Giovanni’s place, Sloane.”

  Now I understood why I hadn’t seen Daniela wearing the necklace before. I understood why Giovanni had a thick, white area on one of his fingers, and why she wore it as a necklace instead of a ring. It was too large to fit on her finger. The signet ring had been his. And she’d decided it was rightfully hers.

  “You’re taking his place? You can do that? You’re a—”

  “Woman? Things have changed. My father needs someone he trusts, a person who will get the job done. While I was gone I was being groomed. Tested. My father wanted to be sure I could handle the responsibility.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  “Why would you want this life for yourself?” I asked.

  “Do you remember the night you rescued me in Salt Lake City after Parker Stanton tried to force himself on me, as he had with so many other women in the past?”

  I nodded.

  “I wasn’t going to his place that night to be with him,” she said. “I was going there to kill him. Turned out he was a lot stronger than I gave him credit for, so I ran. But I didn’t forget. And even after all this time, his father is still paying people to prove his son’s death wasn’t a suicide. He thinks somehow, someday, he’ll find proof of his son’s murder.” She leaned forward, curling her bottom lip into a provocative grin. “Do you want to know something? He never will.”

  In my life, I chased after the truth with such delirious passion, thinking once I found it my mind would finally be at ease. That I could rest easy, satisfied with the knowledge placed before me. In reality, at times that very truth sliced through me like the edge of an executioner’s sword, hacking into my soul until, at last, it was extracted from my body and separated from me.

  And to think, two years earlier I actually thought the Mafia no longer existed.

  CHAPTER 15

  Brynn Rowland had a gap between her two front teeth wide enough to slip a penny through the slot and eyes that reminded me of a mood ring. Depending on where I stood, the color was always changing. I guesstimated her age to be somewhere in the almost-thirty range. But one of the things I was known for was my grossly inaccurate perception of age. Her left arm was in a cast. The rest of her body, the parts I could see, appeared like they’d been spared from serious injury.

  Even hunched over in the hospital bed, I could tell she was taller than the average woman. Stronger too. So when she squeaked a barely audible “hello,” when I entered the room, it caught me off guard.

  “How long have you been Melody Sinclair’s assistant?” I asked.

  She rested her uninjured arm on the blanket in front of her. “Three years.”

  “What’s she like?”

  She started to answer, then looked at the television overhead. The screen flaunted a bikini-clad picture of Melody along with the caption:

  BOMBING SUSPECT STILL MISSING. INVESTIGATORS PROCESSING EVIDENCE FROM SUSPECT’S CAR FOR CLUES.

  In the photo, Melody grasped the railing of a boat with both hands, a cruise ship from the looks of it. She stared straight at the camera, her eyes gleaming, full of life. A soft smile stretched across her face. She certainly didn’t look like a killer.

  Brynn stared at the TV for a few seconds then shifted her gaze to an artificial plant in the corner. A single tear trickled out of the corner of her left eye, sliding down her cheek. She wiped it away. I grabbed the remote, switched the television off.

  “Melody is a nice, caring person,” she began. “She didn’t do anything. Not what they’re suggesting. She’d never hurt anyone. She couldn’t.”

  “I’m not saying she did.”

  Brynn blinked away a few more tears. “Then why are you here?”

  “Melody has some very powerful friends. One in particular wants to know what happened to her that night and why. I’m here on his behalf. I’m not with the police.”

  “So…you’re trying to find her before they do?”

  Nicely put.

  For all the “innocent until proven guilty” talk touted by the law, putting Melody on blast across every major media channel in the nation didn’t make her the victim, it made her the villain. The public had already decided: guilty. Convincing them otherwise wouldn’t be easy.

  Brynn reclined back onto the pillow behind her. She fisted a hand, rubbed her eyelid. “I want to help you, but I don’t know what happened.”

  I tried a simpler approach.

  “My grandfather once said most of the time the people closest to us hold the key that unravels the mystery. You might have valuable information and not even know it.”

  “Such as?”

  “Let’s talk about the night of the movie premiere. When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Right after she introduced the film on stage, before the movie started.”

  “What time did her speech end?” I asked.

  “Maybe 11:15 or so. I met her in the hall at the front entrance of the theater.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She’d misplaced her glasses and wanted to see if she’d left them in the car. I offered to go so she wouldn’t miss anything. She said no, told me to go inside. I figured she’d run right out and return within a minute or two, so I did what she asked.”

  “How long after she walked outside did the explosion happen?” I asked.

  “Five or six minutes maybe? I heard the movie come on, but I wasn’t watching it. I was looking at the theater door, waiting for her to come in. I kept wondering what was keeping her and figured she hadn’t found the glasses yet.”

  Her eyes brimmed with tears, her words jagged, struggling to surface. She swept her uninjured hand beneath her nose, wiping the fluid away.

  “Can I get you anything?” I asked.

  “No. Thanks.”

  I reached for a box of tissues on a shelf, plucked a few out, handed them to her. “Take your time.”

  “It’s just…I should have been there, you know?” she stammered. “I should have gone to get those glasses for her, but she insisted.”

  “It isn’t your fault.”

  She nodded like she’d already been told that a dozen times today. I expect she had.

  When her emotions settled, I continued. “You were staring at the door to the theater, waiting for her to come in. Then what happened?”

  “I heard a loud “pop,” and felt a sharp pain. Blood was all over my shirt. I wasn’t sure if it was mine or someone else’s. I looked down, and that’s when I saw it.” She hoisted the blanket, revealing a bandage taped across her abdomen. “A piece of metal sliced through my shirt, pinning it to my skin. It was sticking right out of me. I tried to pull it out. It was too deep. I kept staring at the blood—there was so much blood—and, I must have passed out. When I woke up, I was here.”

  I winced. She was lucky to be alive.

  “Do you remember seeing anyone who looked out of place, anyone who may have seemed suspicious, or shouldn’t have been hanging around the theater?”

  “I wa
s so busy preparing for the movie to start, it’s all a blur. People were coming and going around me all day, but I couldn’t tell you what any of them looked like. It’s like I saw them but I didn’t really see them, you know?”

  I shifted gears.

  “Did Melody have any enemies? Any trouble in her personal life?”

  Most of the time when I asked this question, I received a resounding “no,” so it was a revelation when she blurted, “She had a stalker.”

  Bingo.

  “When was this?” I asked.

  “After we started filming.”

  “Did she know him? Was he in her life in some way—an ex-boyfriend, maybe?”

  “He was a stagehand. Most people didn’t pay him any attention because he was quiet, a loner. He never talked much to anyone, and when he did talk, he didn’t like looking people in the eye. He bugged me though, even from the beginning.”

  “Why?”

  “His eyes. You couldn’t ever see them. His bangs hung past his nose. He wore silver bracelets, long chains over his shirts, and his fingernails were polished a matte grey color. He wasn’t thin though. He looked like Severus Snape on steroids.”

  “How did the stalking begin?” I asked.

  “He left flowers in her trailer. There was never a card, so we didn’t know it was him at first. Then I caught him following her. We’d be at a restaurant, look out the window, and there he was. We started seeing him all the time. I’d show up at her house and find him parked across the street, staring through her front window like some kind of deranged psychopath.”

  “What did Melody do?”

  “At first she was polite. She thought he had formed some kind of innocent crush. She decided it was best to let him down easy, so she told him she wasn’t interested.”

  “How did he react?” I asked.

  “When we arrived on set the next day, he’d taken a two-by-four to some of the props, destroying them. He was fired. When he showed up at her house again a week later, she called the cops, filed a restraining order.”

  “Did it help?” I asked.

  “We didn’t see him again, but he let us know he was still around.”

  “How?”

  “He left typed notes on her car, in her trailer. Well, not notes, really. More of biblical threats, I guess.”