“Er, quite.”
For just a second, she thought she saw something in his eyes, but that was ridiculous. Harold had no idea who and what she really was. She gave him the smile that had snared him in the first place. “I was thinking about how long since we’ve just had a quiet dinner out somewhere.” She gave a wistful sigh. And then cast him a soulful look. “Do you remember how we used to be, Harold? How young and carefree? Where was that little place we used to eat when we could barely afford to eat out?”
As expected he looked alarmed. He couldn’t remember because there’d never been a “place” for them. She’d always disliked inferior food. He blinked. She pretended not to notice. “We should go back. I wonder if it’s even still there? I think I’ll,” she paused to giggle. “Google it.”
Relief appeared in his mild gaze. Harold was like a faithful old dog, without all the downside of owning a pet. It really was a pity that she’d had to have him put down. But she’d make sure he got a really special headstone, even if he hadn’t been quite faithful. She’d even inscribe it “beloved husband of…” And a jazz funeral. She’s always wanted to be the widow in a jazz funeral.
She’d keep her temper, too. It was only right that his last days should be as pleasant as possible. She would mourn Harold for a very long time, she decided. It was only right. And black was so slimming.
* * *
It was getting harder to be content. It was not the fault of the office. Dimitri Afoniki had arranged for the design himself. It was flawless, tasteful and highly functional.
No, it was what it represented. Second place. Second in command. Not in charge.
When he, Guido and Claude all waited for power—he would not say he was content, but he was less restless.
Aleksi sensed it, of course. He was no fool. He’d isolated himself in his room. He was too ill for visitors, but well enough to shoot orders at Dimitri through texts and email, and occasionally, with direct calls.
Dimitri could not honestly say he wouldn’t have taken the opportunity, if presented, to clear his path to power. It would be so easy to blame it on others right now. While the police still considered Helenne St. Cyr their target for Phineas’s death, piecing together information—both official and unofficial—indicated they were baffled by Bettino’s murder and wondered if the two deaths were, after all, connected.
Dimitri picked up a report about the disappearance of the St. Cyr ring. There were rumors that the Calvino ring was also missing. None of the reports explained why the rings mattered enough to be stolen. He’d think it was some twisted collector of curiosities, except…
As long as he’d known his uncle, the ring had been on the third finger of his left hand. When he was agitated or thinking, he’d twisted it around and around. It was as if having it on his finger wasn’t enough. He must always have both hands on it. If Aleksi weren’t the coldest, most practical man Dimitri had ever known, he’d think Aleksi feared the ring would vanish. And with it, all his power, all of this.
Which did nothing to explain the why of the rings. Oh, he knew of the old story, well, as much as he could find out on his own. Aleksi never spoke of Zafiro. Dimitri had been curious and looked him up. The photos were old, but—he could see why it took the three of them to take him out. The wonder of it was that they had never turned on each other. Oh, they’d had skirmishes, but not even the flare-up when Phil and Toni supposedly died had amounted to much.
Why?
Were the rings some part of the secret? Dimitri was not a superstitious man, but lately he could almost believe the ghost of Zafiro had risen to take his final revenge.
He shrugged the thought away. He was not a superstitious man, so there must be some human agency at work. He began to sift through the reports again, his hand stopping at one.
Why would Claude have Dr. Hannah Baker followed?
He set that report aside and sifted through—there it was. A possible reason. What was Guido up to? He considered the doctor, as seen at that dreadful party. She was attractive, though not really his taste.
It was perhaps redundant to put his own man on the doctor, too. A bribe might work with the current watcher—but anyone who could be bribed once, could be bribed again. Yes, he’d rather one of own people were on it. There were risks in messing with a Baker. Serious risks. If Guido or Claude were planning something there, it would be wise to ensure he wasn’t implicated.
Six
It wasn’t easy to shake off Alex, but Ferris finally managed it. Guy could turn into a burr sometimes. It was like he had some sixth sense of when to stick. Good thing his thinking was scrambled some. A woman could—Ferris stopped, considered this, and decided not to finish the thought as he went into the autopsy room.
That helped clear his thoughts, hypocritical and otherwise. Hannah was not a pretty sight up to her elbows in someone’s guts. She looked up, a smile flickering briefly on her lips before she bent to her task once more. She lifted out a slimy mass of innards and set them in a pan her assistant held out, then stepped back with a nod that must have been permission for said assistant to finish because he set down the pan and stepped closer to the corpse.
Hannah stripped off her gloves and tossed them neatly in the bin, then lifted her face shield. “You got my text.”
He nodded, even though it wasn’t a question. “What’s up?”
She beckoned him to her cluttered desk just outside. He joined her, taking care not to look at her corpse. Weird that he had no problem at crime scenes and got queasy when they were on the table. She pulled a couple of folders toward him and flipped them open and extracted two photos. Then reached into a tray and extracted two others.
“These are the sketches from the shooting, that the sketch artist did from my description,” she said, “and these two arrived on my slab today.”
He didn’t have to study them long to conclude that Hannah had a good memory. A very good memory. He scanned the discovery details. Looked like they’d been quietly put away. Then bagged and tagged for garbage pickup.
“Someone didn’t know that indestructible garbage bags aren’t always indestructible.” He looked up. “All four shot in the back?”
Hannah nodded. “But not at the same time.”
Put down, he concluded, but for what? The crime of not committing the crime they’d been told not to commit?
“Look at this,” Hannah stepped back to the body and showed him the kid’s ink. Before he could connect the gang dots, she said, “It’s temporary. Fake. Not even good fake. I’ve ordered some tests of what was used, but not sure I’ll get them.”
The assistant gave a tiny snort of agreement.
Hard to justify the money on a couple of very low-profile punks. She indicated the door, and he followed her out into the hall. They stopped when they were alone. He frowned. “So someone sent out a couple of fake perps to stir the wise guys’ pot?”
“It’s—” she stopped and he arched an encouraging brow, “like a bad episode of a lame cop show. They couldn’t even fake a shooting.”
“Doesn’t seem like a plan conceived by Afoniki or Calvino. Don’t think Claude St. Cyr is that naive either. Maybe a new guy trying to kick the fire anthill?”
“Even if it had worked, what would the new guy have accomplished? A lot of shooting by a bunch of low-level wise guys?” Hannah looked vaguely frustrated. She rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. “Am I overthinking it? If it had worked and a gang war erupted, it wasn’t likely to affect the guys at the top.”
“I can’t see the genius hiding in this plan either,” Ferris said, propping his back against the wall. “Seems pretty dumb-A to me, but perps do dumb things. Makes our job easier.” He flicked a look back down the hall as the tech rolled her body past them. “Sometimes. Rest of the time, it gets confusing.” He grinned at her and was pleased when her lips curved up and the worry line between her brows softened.
“I hate it when things don’t make sense,” she admitted.
“How do you survive in this town with that crazy attitude?” he shot back and that time got a throaty laugh out of her, one that made his toes feel weird. “You just starting or almost done?” He tried not to sound hopeful.
“Thankfully almost done. And I had this idea I’d like to run past you if you’ve got time.”
“I’ve got time.” Though when they were finally seated across a table from each other, he did wonder how she managed to eat her meat rare. Her face was interestingly angular, almost aesthetic, and her gaze gravitated to analytical without warning, but her appetites were very earthy. Rare meat and rich desserts when someone else picked up the tab. Her enjoyment of that dessert caused him some serious concentration problems, but he managed to soldier through by adding a lot of ice to his cold drink, then pressing it to the side of his neck when she wasn’t looking.
“Wow, I feel human again,” she said, finally leaning back with a contented sigh. Her smile almost took his socks off. “Thank you. I’ll pay you back when I get my check from Sarah.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, did my first wait gig last night. It wasn’t bad.” Her look turned mischievous. “She had me carving the prime rib.”
“Twisted, but clever.”
“She’s no fool.” She flicked him a look. “I told her what we’re doing.”
“Did you?” His brows arched, but not with alarm. Sarah was solid.
Hannah looked at him a bit doubtfully. Her gaze dropped to her plate and she pushed some crumbs from one side to the other. “She misunderstood what we’re doing. Together, I mean. You walk into a room next to someone and…” She shrugged.
Ferris felt…he wasn’t sure. Feelings were for girls. Didn’t like having them unless they were basic. Easy to figure out. So he should be glad she wasn’t assuming feelings not present. Or not acknowledged to be present, his brain tacked on before he could stop it.
“Anyway,” Hannah looked up with an air of moving on, “I got this idea while we were talking.”
Ferris knew this feeling. Had just cause to be wary when a woman got an idea. “Yeah?”
“Nursing homes. Assisted living.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Uncle Charlie and Ellie. It’s the perfect hiding place.” She frowned. “Though there are enough of both to make it challenging.” She paused, her gaze getting distant and analytical again. Then she blinked and continued as if unaware of the pause, “So I spent some time trying to come up with photos. I took a picture of Nell and aged it, cuz everyone says she looks like Ellie. And I didn’t really have to age Uncle Charlie. He must look like Zach. The brothers are variations on a Baker theme.”
Apparently oblivious to Ferris’ mental scramble, she pulled out her cell phone and pulled up a photo, turning it around for his scrutiny.
“I have the photos, but it’s not like we can put out a BOLO on them.”
“Not without a lot of explanations,” Ferris agreed. “May I?” at her nod, he took the phone and studied the image, making the image bigger and moving around. “So that’s how Nell will look as a little old lady.” It was weird to think of Alex as an old man like Zach. Never thought about getting old if he could help it. It’s not like he didn’t know he’d get old some day, but there was this part of him that didn’t quite believe he’d get old. Old was for one’s parents and their friends. And other people’s parents.
“I’ve been reading through the background stuff.” The frown reformed between her brows. “I have this feeling I’m missing something.”
“We’re probably missing a lot of something,” Ferris pointed out, hooking his thumbs into his pockets so he wouldn’t go crazy and try to smooth that frown away. “Lots of holes in what we know. Or what we think we know.”
Her look of assent was as distracting as all her other looks.
“I wish I had minions,” Hannah said, with a sigh.
Ferris blinked. “Minions?”
“Sherlock Holmes called them his Irregulars, but he probably had to tip them. I can’t even afford tips.” She leaned back with a resigned sigh. “If this was a body…”
“What would you do?”
“Dig around inside, of course.”
Ferris laughed. “What I do is like that, except I dig around outside of the body.”
Her smile was a bit perfunctory. “What do we do if we find them? I don’t even have an end game. Zach always says you should know your end game before you start anything.”
Ferris felt a stab that should have been relief. Was he really willing to pursue an unofficial investigation, just to stay close to a girl? He liked truth and justice as much as the next cop, but would truth mesh with justice in this old, cold mess of a—he wasn’t even sure it could be called a case.
“What are you afraid of, Hannah?” he asked, not sure it was the right question, or if there was a right question.
“I want my family to be okay. I want Zach to be okay,” she said finally. She looked up. “He’s worried about something.”
“You could ask him.”
“I have. He played the dad card. He stopped short of patting me on the head.” Her brows pulled together. “Logic says there’s nothing to find. That whatever was isn’t relevant now. Only—it doesn’t feel like nothing.” She gave him a wry look. “It’s like one of those old westerns with horse hooves pounding in the distance, but getting closer.”
“What would you know about old westerns?” The question was mostly to give him time.
She chuckled. “I am beginning to believe that’s the only channel that works on Zach’s TV.” She sobered, a question in her eyes.
Ferris thought he knew what answer she wanted from him. Reassurance it was okay to ignore the beating hooves. “As a guy, I fear female intuition. As a cop…well, we call it gut instinct. Totally different things, of course.”
“Of course.” Her tone might have been ironic. “And what is your gut instinct telling you?”
He sighed. “That old, cold cases can still put out a stink.”
Her shoulders sagged a bit. “So what’s our move?”
He took his time answering. She deserved a serious answer. And if he took his time, he might just come up with one. Finally he offered slowly, “When we have a real b—tough case, we set up a situation room. Make a board. Get visual so we can see what we know, connect what can be connected. Home in on what we don’t know.”
Her worry visibly eased. “Maybe we’ll see a pattern. It does all feel random and disconnected.” Her smile was a bit self mocking. “I like order, even it its just the illusion of order.”
“Then we go forward?” He met her gaze steadily.
This time she didn’t hesitate. “We go forward.”
He wondered if she had same thought as him. May God have mercy on them both.
* * *
Place gave him the creeps. Wasn’t sure why he’d come. Sure not because he trusted the broad. He’d learned that lesson. Old lady St. Cyr better watch her back. You stick a knife in Roger Dunstead’s back and you don’t twist ’til he’s dead then he’s coming for you, fer sure. Wouldn’t be here, but she’d paid his bail. Didn’t mean she owned him, but he’d give her a listen. Owed her that and no more than that. A listen. Then he was outta here. Wasn’t going to hang around. Either needle or nut house waiting for him. On his way out, he’d settle it with the old lady.
“Mr. Dunstead?”
The sweet voice pulled him around to face the door. The dumpy figure stood mostly in shadow. Didn’t usually let someone sneak up on him. He’d lost his edge inside. Despite his inner resolve, he pulled his cap off and nodded.
“Please, have a seat.”
The broad moved into the light, gesturing with one, somewhat chubby hand toward one of two wing-backed chairs. The refusal rose to his lips and died there at the sight of the placid, motherly gaze. He found himself moving toward, then dropping into the chair.
Her slight smile of approval shouldn’t have mattered.
“Ma’am,�
�� he muttered. His hands tightened on the cap, and he shifted to ease the jab of the gun tucked in the back of his waistband.
“You might be more comfortable with that somewhere else,” she said. “Hold it if it makes you feel more at ease.”
“Ma’am?”
“Your gun? I presume you have one? At least, I hope you do?”
“Yes, ma’am.” On some level, it bothered him, but he had a sense of humor. He pulled it out, holding it loosely in one hand.
“Better?” Dunstead nodded. “Good.” She indicated a tray. “Would you like a cup of tea? A cookie perhaps?”
Tea? Not in this lifetime—he opened his mouth, but before he could speak, his head nodded up and then down. His reward was another smile of approval and a cup with a cookie tucked in on the saucer. He balanced cup and gun for several seconds, then gave it up and set the gun on the table at his elbow. Took a bite of the cookie.
“It’s good, thank you, ma’am.”
“I’ve been told I should sell my cookies in a store. My late husband,” a shadow crossed her face, “loved my cookies.”
Maybe it was the sugar that helped his thinking. He finished the cookie and set the cup next to his gun. Thought about picking it up, but before he could decide, she spoke.
“I imagine you’re wondering why I invited you here today.”
“Yes, ma’am. I am wondering.” He looked at his watch, trying to take back control. “Got some business to take care of—”
“I do like a man who cuts through the clutter and gets right to the point.” Her gaze grabbed his, and he saw something at the back of her eyes that made him wish he’d picked up his gun. “Of course, at least, I hope it’s of course,” she smiled again, but this smile made him want to shift in his seat, “I want you to kill someone for me.”
His eyes widened, though he tried to play it cool. “I don’t—” her brows arched. “I mean, I have, but—who?”
Dead Spaces: The Big Uneasy 2.0 Page 10
