by JB Lynn
“I ran into Loretta and Templeton at Angelo’s Restaurant and they insisted I come.”
I unlocked my car door.
“She’s a very difficult woman to turn down.”
“I know.”
“I could follow you home. Make sure you get inside safely.”
I shook my head. “Not tonight. It’s been a long day and I really do have a big meeting tomorrow morning.”
“Can I at least kiss you good night?”
Jerking my chin in the direction of the three sitting on the porch watching us, I asked. “For the enjoyment of the audience?”
He didn’t bother to answer me. Instead he kissed me. Not a chaste peck on the cheek, or a subtle brushing of lips, but a full-on, tonsil-touching kiss that stole my breath and sent my heartbeat into overdrive. He was at least a gentleman in that he angled his body so that all anyone on the porch could see was his broad back. “We should try going on another date, Maggie.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“I’ll call you.”
I nodded again, slipped into my car, and drove away before I asked him to come back to my place.
It was a good thing I didn’t. A very good thing.
MY PLANS WERE simple as I unlocked the front door of my apartment. I was going to walk the dog, take a shower, set up my coffeepot for the next morning, and hit the sack for some much needed rest.
You know what they say about plans.
I was so tired that I didn’t notice right away that something was amiss when I walked into my home. Instead, I blithely tossed my purse in the corner and kicked off my shoes. It wasn’t until I was barefoot, keyless, and without a makeshift weapon in hand that I heard it.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Not far away.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
It was then that I realized that the dog hadn’t greeted me at the door. In the weeks she’d lived with me, she always welcomed me home with a whining chorus of “Gotta! Gotta! Gotta!” which meant she had to pee that very second or her excuse for a brain was going to explode.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
I froze, not knowing what to do. Should I turn and flee? Realistically, how far could I get without my shoes or car keys? Or should I turn on the light and face down the intruder waiting for me in the shadows?
I held my breath, straining to hear whether God was telling me what to do. I didn’t hear anything. The jerk had probably overindulged in crickets and was sleeping it off.
Deciding to make a run for it, I reached behind me, searching for the cold metal of the door handle.
“Hello, Mags. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
So saying, the man in my living room lit up a cigarette lighter and held the flickering flame near his chin so that he looked like a kid telling ghost stories around a campfire.
“Patrick.” Weak with relief, I slumped back against the door.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Holding the light away from his body, I saw that Patrick, my murder mentor, was sitting on the floor, a giant, dark shadow splayed across his lap. Now I knew where the dog was and what was making the thudding sound.
Doomsday the Doberman was having her belly rubbed and kicking her rear leg against the floor signaling her delight.
“I can’t believe you kept her,” Patrick said.
Doomsday’s former owner had been Gary the Gun, the hitman I’d killed just a couple of weeks earlier.
“Not much of a watchdog, is she?” I said, knowing full well that she understood every word I said.
“She’s a good girl, Mags. Don’t be too hard on her. She was guarding the place when I got here.”
“I’ve got to take her for a walk.”
Thud. Thud. Thud.
“Did that when I got here. Fed her too.”
“Oh, thanks.” Without turning on the light, I moved to sit beside him on the floor, leaning back tiredly against my couch. I figured that whatever it was he was here to discuss was better talked out under the cover of darkness. I hadn’t seen or spoken to the tall redhead in two weeks, not since I’d dissolved into a blubbering mess when he’d told me he thought my sister Marlene was alive.
I’m pretty sure that as a detective, he must be fairly accustomed to women sobbing hysterically, but as my murder mentor, he probably wasn’t all that pleased to witness my emotional breakdown. Maybe that was why he was here. Maybe he wanted to dissolve our working relationship. Maybe he’d figured out that killing people is not my forte.
If that were the case, it meant I’d have no need to kill Jose Garcia. I was completely comfortable with having that difficult decision being wrenched away from me. Though I would need to figure out a way to raise more cash to keep Katie at Apple Blossom Estates.
“Why are we sitting on the floor?” I asked.
“I wasn’t sure whether the dog is allowed on the furniture.”
“I haven’t decided that myself.”
“How’ve you been, Mags?”
“Okay.” I was grateful for the shadows. Sometimes when Patrick Mulligan looked at me, I got the unnerving impression that he saw more than I wanted him to. I really wasn’t okay. In fact, I felt as though I was teetering on the edge of losing it, of losing everything, but I didn’t need him knowing that. The last thing I wanted was to see that look of pity he sometimes directed my way when he thinks I’m not looking. “How are you?”
“I’ve been better. Finally healing from that beating I took at Gary’s.”
Unsure of whether he was talking about Gary the Gun assaulting him, or the rough way Doomsday and I had dragged him from the burning house, I stayed silent.
“How’s your niece?”
“The doctors are hopeful.”
“What about you? Are you hopeful?”
“Of course.” The only reason I’d agreed to kill anyone in the first place was that I believed that with the best care possible, my niece would wake up.
“Good. That’s good. Delveccio said he saw you today.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Said you didn’t look too happy about the contract that might be coming our way.”
“Our way?” I hated the way my voice cracked with uncertainty.
I heard Patrick’s sharp intake of breath and then nothing but the soft panting of the dog. Finally he said, “I know the last job didn’t go as planned.”
“That’s an understatement.” Gary the Gun had almost killed both of us.
“I let you down.”
The forlorn note in the detective/hitman’s voice made me wince. Patrick Mulligan was a man who didn’t believe in letting anyone down, which was why he currently had two wives and supported two families.
“No, no, no. That’s not it. I figured after I screwed up the Cifelli hit and then messed everything up at Gary’s . . .” Having the it’s-not-you-it’s-me talk with a hitman was definitely one of the oddest conversations I’d ever had . . . and I’d had some really weird conversations in the past month.
“You did the job. You killed him. Not to mention you saved my life.”
“And you saved mine. I just figured you were giving up on me. I understand, I really do. Working with a rank amateur like me has got to be a liability.”
“I’d never give up on you, Mags.”
I did my best to ignore how special that simple statement made me feel. Besides having the ability to see through my bull, Patrick Mulligan seemed to actually like who he saw. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why. If he didn’t have two wives already, I’d say he was the perfect guy for me.
“So why the hesitation with Delveccio?”
“I’m not sure . . . I’m not sure I’m cut out for—”
“You don’t have to do it, Mags. You can walk away anytime.” Reaching out, he patted my shoulder reassuringly.
Flinching, I jerked away.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“Again, not you,” I told him. “I was moving furniture earlier and now my shoulders are killing me.”
&nbs
p; “If you say so.”
The man had plenty of reason not to believe me. More than once I’d thought he was going to kill me. Still, it pained me to know I was causing him to feel guilty. Despite that his second job involved killing people, he was, in fact, a gentle soul. “Really, Patrick.” Reaching out, I tried to pat his arm. My hand ended up on his thigh instead.
He captured it with his own hand before I could move it in the wrong direction . . . whichever way that might have been.
Doomsday immediately laid her head on top of our intertwined fingers, trapping us. I tried to tug free, but neither the man nor the dog budged.
“We need to talk about that other thing.”
That other thing was my sister Marlene. The one who’d run away after her twin had been murdered. The one I’d been sure was dead, but who Patrick had said was not. “I can’t. Not tonight.”
“Mags . . .”
“Please, Patrick.” I know it was cowardly of me to avoid the conversation, but I wasn’t quite ready to tackle it.
He sighed his displeasure, but thankfully didn’t ask me why I was unwilling to talk about my sister. “If the Garcia contract comes through, what do you want me to do?”
I stroked Doomsday’s ears with my free hand. “I don’t know.”
“How ’bout I ask you again, if, or when, the time comes?”
“I’d appreciate that.”
Pulling my hand out from under the dog’s head, he raised it to his lips, pressing a quick kiss to the back of it before releasing me. “You sound tired. I’ll let you get some sleep.”
Pushing the dog off of him, he got to his feet. “I really am sorry I let you down at Gary’s.”
“You didn’t,” I assured him, struggling to stand.
I thought I saw him shake his head, but in the shadows, it was impossible to tell for certain. “I’ll be in touch.”
Patting Doomsday on the head, he said, “Keep an eye out for her.” With that, he walked out of my apartment.
Once he was out of sight I locked the door, switched on the light, and turned on the dog with a vengeance. “What the hell is wrong with you? You’re supposed to tell me if someone’s here. You’re eating me out of house and home, the least you could do is pretend to be a guard dog.”
Doomsday cocked her head to the side and looked at me as though I were some sort of rabid squirrel she didn’t quite know what to do with. “Sorry?”
It never ceases to amaze me how she can convey in one breathy word how much of an airhead she is.
“Damn right you should be sorry. I’m coming home to an empty house and—”
“Not,” she interrupted.
“Not what?”
“Here Doomsday. Here God.”
It was my turn to cock my head at her. She was right. Technically I no longer came home to an empty house. Instead I lived with a dingbat dog and a smugly superior lizard. Which reminded me . . . why the hell hadn’t God warned me of Patrick’s presence? The Doberman had the excuse of being a few brain cells short of a full load, the lizard did not.
Stalking into my bedroom, the mutt following closely on my heels, too closely considering the mood I was in, I went to confront Godzilla. In the light flickering from the television I’d left on for him, I could see that he was draped over a branch in a corner of his glass-enclosed terrarium, eyes closed and belly bulging.
“Wake up!” I pounded on the lid of his home like I was the Big Bad Wolf getting ready to blow his house down.
Startled, he fell off the branch in an undignified mess of legs and tail. “Earthquake! Earthquake!”
“It’s not an earthquake. It’s me.”
He drew himself up to his full height (which is only a couple of inches so it’s not nearly as impressive as he’d like to think it is), crossed his arms over his chest, and leveled an unblinking stare at me. “Why,” he asked in his snootiest, wannabe-a-British-aristocrat voice, “why did you do that?”
“Because you didn’t warn me that Patrick was sitting in my living room.”
“Was he?”
“Yes! He was! And neither of you thought to tip me off to that particular fact. I almost had a heart attack when I realized I wasn’t alone here.”
“Not!” Doomsday interjected.
“Not what?” God asked.
“She thinks I’m not alone because the two of you are here.”
“She’s right.”
Thud. Thud. Thud.
A quick glance at the dog revealed that she was grinning from ear to ear (the sight of a Doberman beaming is downright scary if you ask me), obviously pleased that God had said she was right about something.
“Technically . . .” I conceded grudgingly.
“You should get used to the idea.” The lizard climbed back onto his branch and lay down. “We’re not going anywhere.”
Doomsday licked my hand for emphasis.
“Now go to bed. You look exhausted,” God lectured.
Without showering or changing clothes I flopped onto my bed tiredly. Doomsday jumped up and curled against me.
Just then, feeling the warmth of my canine companion and listening to God snore, I’ve got to admit that a strange sense of peace stole over me as I drifted off to sleep.
It wouldn’t last though. All hell was about to break loose.
Chapter Four
I SHOULD HAVE known something was up the moment I walked into Insuring the Future and saw Armani sitting at her desk. Glancing at the clock on the wall, I assured myself that I wasn’t late for work. That meant Armani was on time . . . a few minutes early, in fact. In the entire time I’ve worked at the insurance company, she has shown up late every single day.
Maybe it was Harry’s offer of a free breakfast, but I thought it was more likely the imminent threat of heads rolling that had scared her into acting like a model employee.
“Morning, Chiquita!” she practically chirped as I strolled up to her desk.
“Morning. Meeting start yet?”
“Uh-uh. E-mail sent out this morning says the start’s been delayed by an hour. Think that means Harry’s bailing on the breakfast deal?”
I shook my head. “I think it means he’s fucking with our heads. Showing us who’s in control.”
Nodding, she held out a purple silk bag. “Pick.”
I hesitated. I knew what was in the bag. Scrabble tiles. My partially disabled pal claims to be able to read the future in them, sort of like reading tea leaves.
She shook the bag impatiently.
Sighing, I indulged her, pulling seven tiles from the bag and placing them on her desk. Up until a few weeks ago I would have told you that I didn’t buy into this psychic act at all, but things had changed. I now was open to the possibility that my work friend could catch glimpses of the future. Unfortunately I was just as convinced that her interpretation of those visions was usually way off base.
Shaking her mane of thick, dark hair so that it partially obscured her face, she quickly put them in alphabetical order: DEFIRRU. Pitching her voice deeper, a standard part of her fortune-telling act, she mused, “Eleven. Not such a great number.” She’s also superstitious about the numerical value, as computed by Scrabble tiles, of people’s names and important words or phrases.
Big surprise there. Only an idiot would have suggested that my life was filled with sunshine and roses. Even though Armani knew nothing of my murder-for-hire venture, she was well acquainted with Katie being in the hospital and the car accident that had put her there.
She stared intently at the letters, as though willing them to reveal my future to her.
“Armani, I—”
“Shh!”
I smelled pepperoni a split second before Harry spoke from behind me, “Good morning, ladies.”
“Hey, Harry.” I answered for both of us since Armani was engrossed in her study of the tiles. “What’s for breakfast?”
“Donuts. Could I speak to you for a moment alone, Maggie?”
“Sure.” I tried to ca
tch Armani’s eye as I followed Harry into his office, but she was busy moving the Scrabble pieces around.
The second Harry shut the door to his office, I forgot all about the faux prophecy being dreamed up, because Harry draped an arm around my shoulders. A hot, sweaty, possessive arm. “We have to talk, Maggie.”
I tried to gracefully pull away, but he was one wily octopus.
“It’s about your future here.”
“My future?” Shoving his arm off of me, I made a point of putting a chair between us before I turned to face him.
“Your reviews are consistently problematic. I’ve done what I can to protect you, but . . .” He let his unspoken threat hang in the air for a second before he made his move. “I think you need more one-on-one help. Some additional training outside the office.”
I have many faults. Among them is my tendency to imagine the worst of any situation. It’s something I’m working on, so I did my best to give him the benefit of the doubt. “You mean at headquarters?”
He chuckled. “With me. Over dinner.”
“You’re asking me out?”
He nodded, smiling.
“No.”
His face fell. “That would be a mistake, Maggie.”
“Are you threatening me?” I’d gotten away with murder. Twice. I was pretty sure I could knock off this smug son-of-a-bitch and get away with it.
“I’ll give you until the end of the day to make your decision. Just remember that your job is hanging in the balance.” He opened his office door and said loudly enough for half his employees to hear, “I’ll see you in the meeting.”
Steaming, I marched back out to Armani’s desk, intent on sharing what I’d just endured, but I never got the chance.
The moment I was within earshot she blurted out, “Bad news, Chiquita.”
“What now?”
She pointed to my letters which she’d laid out: RUF RIDE “You’re in for a rough ride.”
I didn’t need a freakin’ psychic to tell me that.
The meeting consisted of stale donuts, burnt coffee, and Harry doing his best to play benevolent dictator while threatening to “let go” twenty percent of the department who had “less than stellar” reviews. Basically this meant me, Armani, a couple of alcoholics who stumbled in late and hungover on a consistent basis, and the twenty-something slackers who were more suited to bagging groceries at a snail’s pace.
