He drove past LaFortune Park, admiring a jogger on the three-mile trail that circled the park. She wore tight shorts and a neon-pink bra, and her blond ponytail wasn’t the only thing bouncing with each step. Maybe Simmons was right, he thought, taking one last look in the rearview mirror. He did need a woman. He could hardly remember the last time he’d gotten laid, and didn’t want to remember the last date he’d had. It had been that bad.
He turned off Fifty-first, drove two blocks, and took a left, then made a right after another block. He slowed, then stopped beside a familiar figure. In the last seconds, his chest had tightened until he could hardly breathe, and his fingers were knotted around the steering wheel. He rolled down the window, swallowed hard, then forced a smile. “Dad. Why don’t you get in and let me give you a ride home?”
It was painful, facing the man he’d known all his life— the smart, funny, tough guy who wasn’t the least bit ashamed of showing his emotions—and seeing no hint of recognition in his eyes. The face and body were thinner, but otherwise the same, and the eyes . . . hell, Tony faced those eyes every time he saw himself in the mirror. They were so damn familiar . . . and, at the moment, so damn blank.
“I’m going for a walk,” his father said dully, and shuffled away.
Tony parked at the curb, then easily caught up, reaching out for Joe’s arm. “Come on, Dad. It’s too hot for a walk. Let me give you a ride. I’m going there anyway.”
Joe stopped. “Do I know you?”
“Yeah, Dad, it’s Tony. Your favorite son,” he said with a weak grin. It had long been a family joke, with all seven kids claiming to be their dad’s favorite and Joe agreeing, absolutely, yes.
There was nothing funny about it now.
“I’ve got to get home. It’s almost time for work. I’m a police officer, you know.”
“I know, Sarge. So am I—I’m in Homicide. How about I give you a lift so you won’t be late?”
Joe gave him an appraising look as he allowed Tony to steer him to the passenger side of the car. “A detective, huh? I swear, you kids are getting younger every day. It makes me feel my age, you know.” He stared out the window as Tony fastened the seat belt for him, then remained silent for the three-block drive to their house.
As Tony pulled into the driveway, his older sister, Julie, burst out the front door, cell phone in one hand, car keys in the other. She stopped abruptly, then rushed to the car and jerked open the door. “Daddy, what are you doing? Where did you go?”
Joe got out, gave her a distant look, then started toward the door. “Thanks for the ride, Detective. I’ve got to get changed now.” Shoulders erect, he went inside the house without so much as a glance back.
Tony gazed at Julie over the roof of the car. “What happened?”
“I turned my back for a minute—just one minute—to check on dinner and when I turned back around, he was gone. I don’t know—I thought—”
“Where’s Mom?”
“She’s gone to the grocery store. I offered to go for her, but she said no, just keep an eye on Daddy, and I tried, but I lost him. My God, he could have been hit by a car or—or—”
Tony circled the car, slid his arm around her shoulders, and headed for the door. “It’s not your fault. He got away from Mom last week, remember?” That time Joe had made it halfway across town to Henry’s house, but when he’d gotten there, he hadn’t had a clue who Henry was. By the time Tony arrived, Joe’s agitation over the strangers living in Henry’s house had been full-blown. Tony had needed Henry’s help to get Joe into the car, and he’d ranted all the way home. Then, after a few hours’ rest, he’d forgotten the incident and never mentioned it again.
Grimly shutting out the memory, Tony followed Julie inside. “You can’t hog-tie him, you know.”
For a moment her distress was replaced by the big-sister bossiness he knew so well. “You wanna bet?”
The house was cool and smelled of pot roast and citrus. The lights were off in the living room, the blinds drawn against the afternoon sun. Tony found his father in the master bedroom, meticulously removing his clothing. The bedcovers were folded back. “You taking a nap, Dad?”
“I had a hard day at work. It tires a man out.” Stripped down to his boxers and T-shirt, and still wearing his shoes and socks, Joe sat down on the bed, slid his feet under the covers, then stretched out on his side. “Turn off the lights on your way out, would you?”
Tony glanced at the overhead light that wasn’t on. “Sure.” Three steps took him into the room. He lifted the sheet and blanket, unlaced and removed Joe’s shoes, then spread the covers again. “Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
“Uh-huh.”
Another childhood ritual, right down to the response. Only the roles were reversed.
He closed the door behind him, then returned to the front door to lock the double-keyed dead bolt. If Joe tried to wander off again, he would have to go through the patio or the garage doors, and to get to either, he would have to pass Tony and Julie in the kitchen.
He found his sister at the sink, scrubbing dishes as if someone’s life depended on it. When he touched her shoulder, she stiffened and sniffled a time or two before glancing at him. “What are we going to do, Tony?”
He wanted to protest. He wasn’t the oldest—that was J.J.—or the most responsible—that was Nick—or the most maternal. Julie won that one. He didn’t have any suggestions or ideas. Hell, like their mother, he didn’t even want to acknowledge that anything was wrong. He’d looked up to his father all his life, and damned if he wanted to accept that Joe was slipping away a little more every day.
“I know why Mom wanted to do her own grocery shopping,” Julie went on. “She would never admit it, but she needed to get away from him. Watching him is like watching a hyperactive three-year-old, except you can reason with a kid better than you can with him, and a kid doesn’t forget who you are every time he turns his back.”
And you didn’t have forty years of memories with a kid. You hadn’t lived, loved, worked, and raised a family together. You hadn’t planned and saved for retirement, hadn’t sacrificed in anticipation of all the things you were going to do together someday—all the trips you were going to take, all the hobbies you’d never found time for, all the grandkids you were going to spoil.
“He still has good days,” Tony pointed out.
“Yes, he does, but I’m not sure whether that’s a blessing or a curse. I called yesterday and talked to him for half an hour, and it was just like old times. It was so wonderful that I found myself thinking maybe he can beat this. Maybe it’s all a mistake; it’ll go away, and he’ll be all right. Then I came over this afternoon, and he didn’t know who I was. It’s so hard. Sometimes I think it would be easier if he just—” Clamping her mouth shut, she turned back to the dishes.
If he just died. That was what she’d been about to say. The thought shamed Tony, because no matter how desperately he wanted Joe to live a long, healthy life, there was a part of him that shared the sentiment. Sudden death must be easier than watching the disease destroy Joe’s mind before it ended his life. Even though he couldn’t imagine life without his father.
“We’ll handle it,” he said, bumping against Julie as he began rinsing the dishes and stacking them in the drainer. “We’ll figure something out.”
Though he was damned if he had a clue what.
By nightfall, the temperature had dropped to a comfortable level, made more so by the breeze blowing out of the west. Selena had finished unpacking—a few clothes in the closet, a few toiletries in the bathroom—and was in the process of fixing a late dinner. Etta James was on the stereo, her voice drifting through the open doors onto the small patio. Selena had set the CD player to repeat one particular song so she could learn the words, feel the emotion that gave them life, and wonder why it, of all the songs on the CD, struck a chord with her. It was bluesy, achy, about love and loss and fighting the inevitable. I would rather go blind, the refrain went,
than to see you walk away from me.
She was standing next to the grill, basting the chicken, moving naturally, almost subconsciously, to the music, when a voice came out of the darkness.
“I would rather go deaf than hear that song one more time.”
Alarm skittered down her spine, there, then gone— nothing more than the natural startle reflex. She didn’t let it show, though, other than in the tightening of her fingers around the basting brush. Forcing a casual air, she rested the brush in the dish of marinade, then turned to face her visitor.
Tony Ceola stood in the weak illumination cast by the light above the back door. He wore running shorts, a T-shirt, and broken-down sneakers without socks, and his dark brown hair stood on end, as if he’d been trying to concentrate—or sleep—without much success. His skin was dark, too, though not as dark as her own, and his nose was straight, his mouth nicely formed, his jaw square. He topped six feet by an inch or two, with broad shoulders, narrow hips, and muscled arms and legs. He was . . .
Not particularly handsome. Solid was the first word to come to mind. Unremarkable, except for his eyes—dark brown with a luxurious sweep of thick lashes. Average, except for the smile that quirked his mouth. Still, there was something about him . . .
She mentally shook herself. “Sorry. I’m not accustomed to having neighbors so close they can hear my music. I’m Selena McCaffrey. And you’re Anthony Ceola.” Though she knew better, she pronounced his name the way it was spelled, with a soft s, just to see if he would correct her. He did.
“It’s Tony. And while I’ll answer to see-OH-luh, or chee-OH-luh, or just plain Chee, in the family we say chay-OH-luh. ”
“I’ll remember that.” It wasn’t a meaningless nicety. Once she’d accomplished her uncle’s orders and left Oklahoma, she had no doubt she would remember everything about this trip for the rest of her life.
He glanced through the open door into the kitchen, where the mess of her dinner preparations still covered the island, then through the tall windows into the sunroom, where canvasses and paint supplies were clearly visible. “You just moved in?”
She used tongs to remove the chicken from the grill to a plate, then gave him a sidelong look. “Can’t put anything past you, can I, Detective?”
His grin carried even more of an impact than his smile. It made her hand unsteady, made the tongs clatter against the grill. “You’ve been talking to the neighbors.”
“Actually, the real-estate agent,” she lied. She wasn’t looking to make friends. She wanted only to do the job she’d come for.
“I didn’t even know this place was on the market.”
She didn’t comment as she transferred skewers of fruit and vegetables from the grill to the plate. The housing arrangements had been entirely William’s responsibility. She didn’t know whether he’d bought the house or was merely renting it. She did know he’d been smart enough to ensure his name wouldn’t be associated with the deal. Though she’d handled the business end, Christine Evans probably didn’t have a clue who she’d been handling it for.
No, when the detectives of the Tulsa Police Department went looking for answers, the only name to cross Christine’s lips would be Selena’s. It would be up to her to create an airtight alibi or, failing that, to disappear and resurface in a new place with a new name. It wasn’t difficult. She’d done it before.
“Have you had dinner?” she asked, extending the plate in offering. “I have plenty to share.”
He shook his head. “I stopped by my mom’s after work and she stuffed me with pasta, fresh bread, and tiramisu.”
She gestured toward the small patio table covered with a cloth and holding a lighted candle, a bottle of wine, and silverware. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
He considered it a moment—thinking about the lateness of the hour or work the next day?—then shrugged. “Sure.”
After setting the plate on the table, she went inside to get another wineglass from the cabinet. While there, she reset the CD player to continue to the next song.
When she returned, he was sitting at the table, one ankle crossed over the other knee, eyes closed, looking tired and relaxed, but not at ease. Was it work on his mind? Or something personal?
He’d mentioned his mother, a natural lead-in for questions that she didn’t want to ask. She didn’t ask many personal questions, didn’t make many friends. She’d learned the hard way that life was safer alone. But thanks to William, what she wanted mattered little. “Does your mother live here in town?” she asked as she filled both glasses with wine, then set one in front of him.
“My mother, my father, four brothers and two sisters, various in-laws, nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, and cousins. There’s no shortage of Ceolas in northeastern Oklahoma.” He sipped the wine and made an appreciative gesture. “What about your parents? Where do they live?”
“They don’t.” Her answer was automatic, one she’d given for so long that sometimes she believed it. Truthfully, she knew nothing about her father, and what she remembered most about her mother was her shame. When Luisa had looked at Selena’s coarse hair and coffee-colored skin, she hadn’t seen a daughter, but a reminder of an affair that never should have happened. A mistake that couldn’t be hidden or ignored when her father’s black heritage was stamped so clearly on her features.
“I’m sorry,” Tony said. “That’s tough. So . . . what brings you to Oklahoma?”
“I needed a change of scene. I was feeling stifled.”
“Where?”
“Florida. Key West.”
“Oh, yeah, sure. I can see that. Ocean breezes, tropical weather, beautiful people . . . So much better to be in Oklahoma, landlocked, hot, and soon to be entering our annual summer drought.”
“You like it enough that you haven’t moved elsewhere,” she pointed out. She couldn’t imagine spending thirty-four years in the same place. The longest she’d ever stayed in one place had been as a child, when she’d lived with her mother, her mother’s husband, Rodrigo, and their children in a tiny town in Puerto Rico. Nine years—that was all they’d been able to bear with her.
“It’s home,” he said with a shrug.
Home. Such a little word to stir such longing inside her. Her big white house in Key West was the only real home she’d ever had. If she succeeded here, she could go back to it. If she didn’t . . .
She ate leisurely, as if her appetite weren’t nonexistent, as if she wouldn’t rather be anyplace else. The artist in her appreciated the tenderness of the chicken, the sweet tang of the salsa, the dark smoky flavor of the peppers, pineapple, and onions, while the woman recognized them for what they were—required sustenance, no more.
“Tell me about the neighborhood.”
He extended both arms to encompass the area. “This is it. Small, quiet, no excitement. The people next door are hardly ever home. The ones across the street work long hours and travel a lot on weekends. Through the woods here is the Marlowe Mansion. Used to be home to one of Oklahoma’s richest oilmen, but now it’s an art museum. I try to avoid it, but you would probably appreciate it.”
She followed his gaze once again to the canvasses in the sunroom. Most of them were blank, though the faint outlines of a sketch were visible on one. The only real work-in-progress was tucked out of sight, a self-portrait she’d started months ago but had never been able to finish.
Common sense had decreed that she leave the supplies at home—after all, she had no idea how long she would be in Tulsa or how quickly she might have to leave. But need had overridden it. Her art grounded her, gave her purpose and control. She grew unsettled when her canvasses and paints weren’t at hand, and since coming here had already unsettled her, she’d opted to bring the supplies for balance. If she had to leave them behind to make a quick getaway . . . well, nothing was irreplaceable. Not even the self-portrait.
“You think it takes an artist to appreciate art?” she asked as she pushed her plate away, then settled back in her chair.
>
“Not necessarily. Well, sometimes. I’m one of the unsophisticated masses who wants paintings to look like what they’re supposed to be. Don’t slap a smudge here, a splatter there, and a blob elsewhere, then tell me it’s anything other than a smudge, a splatter, and a blob.”
“My paintings always look like what they’re supposed to be.” Usually even better. She painted houses with rambling verandas and inviting wicker chairs, gardens filled with emerald grass and lush tropical flowers, idyllic villages spread along the beach like jewels dropped from the sky. There was no disrepair in her paintings, no poverty, no misfortune or betrayal or disappointment. Just perfect little slices of paradise.
But no one knew better than she that even paradise was never perfect.
“Do you sell them?”
She nodded once. “I have a place in Key West. Island Dreams Art Gallery.”
“Can I see some of your work?”
“Sometime.” She ran one fingertip along the choker around her neck, lifting it so the breeze could cool her skin, and saw his gaze follow. The narrowing of his eyes meant he’d noticed the bruises on her throat, fainter now, the colors muted, but still difficult to miss. Similar marks on her arm and rib cage—souvenirs of her last workout with Montoya—as well as the bruise on her shoulder from her run-in with William’s guard, were hidden by her clothes, while the one on her ankle could be mistaken for a trick of the light. The ones on her throat, though, like her paintings, looked exactly like what they were. Would he ask about them like a good cop, or opt for discretion and ignore them?
“So you’ve always lived in Oklahoma,” she remarked, letting the choker’s wooden beads settle back against her skin. “Does that mean you have a Stetson, a pair of boots, and a horse tucked away somewhere?”
“Hardly. I’m more likely to wear a ball cap than a cowboy hat, and horses and I don’t get along.” He drained the last of his wine and set the glass on the table, then shook his head when she offered the bottle. “As for other Oklahoma stereotypes, I’m that rarity among native Okies—no Indian blood. I don’t listen to country music, I don’t own a single oil well, and I don’t live and breathe football.”
The Assassin Page 7
