by Beth Ciotta
Tonight, Jake noted with amusement, Joni clashed big time with the warm, inviting furnishings. “Considering I was on my way back from Cherry Hill when you called with your emergency, and that there aren’t a helluva lot of fast food restaurants open at this hour, I think I made pretty good time.” He opted to sit in the quilt-printed rocker glider, a safe distance away from his hormonal sister. “You could have sent Carson.”
“Carson got a last minute call to sub for the pianist in the pit band for that new show at the Carnevale. The regular guy broke his wrist. Bad for him, good for Carson. This could turn into a steady gig,” she said with a big smile. “He has a rehearsal after the show. I don’t expect him until around three a.m.”
Jake frowned. “What if you need him before then?” Sure, he was happy about Carson’s potentially steady job. But if it meant leaving Joni alone late at night, every night …
“He’s got his cell phone,” Joni said, nibbling on an onion ring. “Stop being such a mother hen.”
Since their own mother had passed on from cancer six years ago, and as Carson’s parents lived in Ohio, Jake figured he had the right to hover and nag. It didn’t matter that Joni had always been a tough little rug rat, or that she’d married an adoring husband, he still considered himself his little sister’s protector. Just now he was cursing himself for indulging her late night craving. His stomach rolled at the sight of all that grease. “How can you eat junk like that after midnight?”
She licked her fingers. “I’m pregnant. I can eat junk like this anytime.”
He thumbed up the brim of his baseball cap and watched her devour a quarter of the double cheeseburger in two bites. “That’s not your supper is it?”
She smirked. “No. I had spaghetti and meatballs with Carson around five. We missed you.”
“Sorry I had to cancel again. It’s this case.” This time he’d tailed Rivelli to Angela Brannigan’s home, an upscale townhouse on the outskirts of Cherry Hill. He could have bailed at that point on the assumption that Rivelli would spend the night in his fiancée’s bed, but something prodded him to extend the surveillance. Sure enough, around ten o’clock, the casino V.P. exited Angela’s townhouse, hopped into his BMW, and sped off. He’d driven straight home and after an hour his lights were off, and all was deadsville in Rivelli’s primary residence. Maybe he was humping his secretary in the office supply room, because there sure wasn’t any action late at night. Not the past two nights anyway.
“Tell me about it,” Joni said. “Maybe I can help.”
Jake pointed at the quart of ice cream sitting on the honey-oak coffee table. “You want me to put that in the fridge?”
“No. I’m going to eat it in a minute.”
The health nut in him cringed. “The whole thing?”
“Stop busting my ass. I get enough grief from Carson.” She reached for another greasy onion ring. “According to the doctor, I’m fine. Now tell me what’s up with the cheater. And don’t look at me with that ‘it’s confidential’ face. I’m still part of the team. I’m just on extended leave.”
He grunted. “Like you’re ever coming back.” Once she had the baby, she’d forget all about nailing cheaters, abusers, and deadbeat dads. She’d be immersed in the daily grind of rearing her kid and making sure he or she got the right moral guidance so that they didn’t end up a cheater, abuser, or lazy bum. She’d never be able to dump her kid at daycare. Speaking of which … “You know anything about a daycare center called The Sea Serpent?”
“Funny you should ask. It came up when I was researching Afia. Sorry I haven’t filled you in before now, but there was a lot of interesting info on that girl, and I wanted to try to sift through fiction and fact. I’ll go and get my notes,” she said, rising with fried food in hand. “Be back in a sec.”
Interesting, he thought as his sister padded out of the room in her striped pajamas, didn’t begin to describe Afia St. John. He swept off his cap, tossed it on the end table, and massaged the back of his neck. Every time he thought about that woman he got a spasm. She’d twisted him into a knot of emotions this afternoon, and he’d yet to unwind. After their blowout, they’d retreated to their own corners to wait out the thunderstorm. She’d curled up in the parlor with Velma, the traitor, to watch a classic movie while he’d searched through the second bag of Rivelli’s trash. The day hadn’t been a complete bust. Bag number two had produced three press-on fingernail tips and a pair of black fishnet stockings with a major run. Of course they could belong to Angela Brannigan, surely she’d spent a night or two at her fiancé’s shore getaway. But per her specific instructions, he wouldn’t be able to ask her until she called him. Clearly, the woman was paranoid. He wondered why, but he didn’t obsess on the point because he was too busy obsessing over Afia and her weird behavior.
First she’d hyperventilated over losing a charm. Then she’d freaked out when he’d insulted Gallow, which he hadn’t meant to do, but, hell, it had just come out. She’d been so offended, she’d tried to quit her “job.” Yeah, that would’ve gone down real well with Harmon.
So he’d salvaged his “assignment” by offering to help her locate Glick. Harmon wouldn’t like that either, but he didn’t intend to follow through, so no harm done. He’d stall her for a while, and if pressed they’d do some surface prodding. As much as he’d like to show up Kilmore, he could very well botch whatever progress the Philadelphia P.I. had already made by diving in cold.
He didn’t want to jeopardize Afia’s chances of getting back her money. If that’s what made her happy … money and Gallow. The knot tightened when he thought about Afia’s staunch defense of her friend. He applauded her loyalty even though he didn’t understand it. Did she think so little of herself that she’d settle for a gold digger? Was she that insecure? It bothered him that her mother had crammed all of that superstitious nonsense down her throat. Instead of instilling her child with confidence, she’d convinced her that she was jinxed. It made his blood boil. According to Harmon, Judge St. John had been enormously fond of his only child. Had Giselle been jealous? He’d dealt with women like that, jealous of their own children. Had she beat Afia down to build herself up? The judge was no longer around but Giselle had a new husband. Did she worry he might take an interest in Afia? Would she go so far as to sabotage Afia’s life by setting her up with a crooked accountant? Or was she plain and simple a nutcase?
“What’s got your underwear in a twist?” Joni reentered the room carrying a notebook and a bottle of beer. She handed Jake the beer. “You look like you’re ready to punch something … or someone.”
He took a swig, knowing he’d need at least three beers to cool his jets tonight, but what the hell, one was a start. He nodded toward the notebook as Joni took her seat. “Whatdaya got?”
She drummed her fingers on the open pages. “Why do you want to know?”
“She’s my employee. I have a right to check into her background.”
Joni snorted. “Shouldn’t you have done that before you hired her?”
Jake took another swig, leveled her with a pointed stare. “Don’t make me confiscate your Rocky Road.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You have a death wish?”
Maybe. He had a thing for Afia. Wasn’t that the same? “What about that daycare center?”
“The Sea Serpent,” she said, still drumming her fingers. “A daycare center designed for low-income families. It was founded twenty years ago by Judge St. John and a couple of other Atlantic City dignitaries. Relies heavily on contributions, funding from the Seashore Charity Committee and such. Afia served on the SCC for years.”
“Past tense?”
“She resigned a couple of weeks ago.”
About the same time she’d lost her fortune. “Reason?”
Joni shrugged.
Jake let it go. At least he knew that there was an actual connection between Afia and the daycare center. Maybe she really had been clipped by a four-year-old boy. “Okay. Let’s move on.” He glanced
at his watch. “Hit the hot spots for me. It’s one o’clock in the morning. You and the kid should be in bed.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She propped her fuzzy bunny slippers on the coffee table and thumbed through her notes. “Afia St. John’s hot spots. Here we go. Born twenty-seven years ago to Bradley and Giselle St. John on, get this, Friday the thirteenth.” She whistled. “No wonder she has such rotten luck.”
Jake rolled his eyes. “Not you too.”
“What?” She waved him off and continued. “Honor roll student. Went on an African safari with her father, Judge Bradley St. John, to celebrate her high school graduation. Freak accident #1: The judge was skewed by a rhino.” She shuddered. “Can you imagine?”
He recalled the fondness in Afia’s voice when she’d spoken of her father and grimaced. “She didn’t witness the act, did she?”
Joni shook her head. “No. But it must’ve been traumatic all the same.”
Jake agreed. He hadn’t been that close to their dad, a remote man who’d cared more about being a cop than a father or husband, but he’d felt like hell for months after Sergeant Richard Leeds had died in a fouled robbery.
Joni tucked her bobbed hair behind her ears and then eyed Jake. “Did you know that both of her husbands were, like, twenty years her senior? In fact, they were both friends of her father’s. Don’t you think that’s weird? I mean it’s like she looked for someone to take her daddy’s place.”
Someone who could stand up to her mother. He took a pull off the long neck and waved his sister on.
“No college. No career,” she said, glancing back at her notes. “Unless you consider being a trophy wife a career, which I guess it could be. Probably had to arrange a lot of dinner parties, frequent snooty galas, crap like that.” She shuddered. “Anyhow, she married a hot shot defense attorney, Randy Harper, when she was, uh, twenty-two. Lots of old money. They were married two years, no children and then … Freak accident #2: Harper died in bed. With Afia.” She raised her eyebrows. “Apparently they were …”
“Got it.” Jake chugged a quarter of the beer, trying to dislodge the disturbing image. “Next.”
“Hold up.” Joni reached for the ice cream, peeled off the lid, and grabbed a spoon. She scooped out a glob of Rocky Road and then leaned back holding the spoon like a lollipop. “Moving on … A little under two years later she marries the CEO of a pharmaceutical company. We’re talking stinking rich here. Married less than a year, no children, wham … Freak accident #3: Frank Davis gets whacked in the temple by a renegade golf ball during a charity golf tournament. And, yes, you guessed it, Afia was there, or on the grounds anyway. She’s the one who registered him in the tournament.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Jake said, growing more irritable by the minute. He’d read most of this in the newspaper. “You can skip the speculation. The gossip about her being responsible for her husbands’ deaths.”
“The black widow reference.”
He scowled. “That’s the one.” Sure he’d toyed with the idea once or twice over the last couple of days, but his gut told him Afia wouldn’t harm a fly. Gallow on the other hand …
“All righty.” Joni licked her spoon and scanned her notes. “Here’s one that hasn’t hit the newspapers. She’s broke.” Her head snapped up. “Can you believe it? All that money … gone. The IRS confiscated her houses, one in Ventnor, one in Philly. The creditors took the rest. No wonder she needs a job.” She smirked. “I told you she was in trouble. Man, oh, man. I wonder if she has a gambling problem?”
“Her business manager embezzled her funds.” Jake figured he could let Joni in on that much since Afia had spilled the beans this afternoon. Besides, he didn’t want her thinking that the woman had a gambling addiction. Her character had withstood enough speculation.
“All of it?” Joni asked wide-eyed.
“Apparently.”
“That sucks.”
“Yep.”
Eyes sparking, Joni jabbed her spoon into the tub of partially eaten ice cream. “We should track the scum. Bilking a widow. What a creep!”
“You aren’t going to do anything. You’re supposed to be taking it easy.”
“How many times do I have to tell you and Carson? I did my bed time. I’m fine. Do you really think I’d endanger this baby?”
“Of course not, but we’re not taking any chances. I shouldn’t have asked you to do this much. Now you’re all worked up.”
“Better worked up than bored to death doing word search puzzles.” She jabbed a finger in the air. “Don’t lock me out of this. I’m serious, Jake. I’ve relaxed enough for a lifetime. You try sitting around for days on end with your thumb up your ass!”
He howled. “It’s not my fault you couldn’t think of anything better to use than your thumb.”
She tossed a throw pillow at his head. “Not funny.”
“Very funny,” he said, taking the hit. He polished off the beer and then regarded her with a calming smile. “As for locating the accountant, you can relax. The wheels are already in motion.” He let her assume that he was the one conducting the search. If she knew it was Kilmore, she’d ask why, and he wasn’t up to concocting an answer.
“Oh.” Her color faded from bright red to healthy pink. “Well, good.” She drummed her fingers on the notebook, cocked her head, and waited for Jake to give her direction. When he didn’t, she heaved an exasperated sigh. “This is the part where you tell me how I can help.”
“Sure thing. You can start by going to bed and getting some rest.”
“In other words you’re shutting me out.” She scowled. “You’re an ass.”
“That seems to be the general consensus today.” Afia’s opinion of him had definitely dipped after that crack about Gallow. He shoved the gold digger out of his mind and considered the con artist. Henry Glick could be half way around the world by now operating under any number of aliases. He wondered if Kilmore had made any progress.
Jake’s conscience smarted like hell. He’d told Afia he’d help her find Glick. Joni assumed he was on the case. He couldn’t step on Kilmore’s toes. Well, he could, but he wouldn’t. Yet.
He dragged a hand over his face. When had this gotten so complicated?
The moment Afia St. John had walked into his office and zapped him with those lost puppy dog eyes.
Who was he kidding? He was going to save her whether she wanted his help or not.
“All right. I give up,” Joni said with a yawn. “I can’t talk to you when you’re in protector mode. It’s too damn wearing.” She rose, snatched up her ice cream and headed out of the room. “I’m going to bed.”
“Good.”
She cast a wary look over her shoulder. “What are you going to do?”
He smiled at his tough-as-nails sister, unable to resist one last tease. “Help myself to a couple of your beers and sit out here with my thumb up my ass until Carson gets home.”
Chapter Twelve
“Maybe she’ll talk to you.”
Jean-Pierre stirred sweetener into his coffee while peering up through his thick lashes at Rudy. “Why would she talk to me? You are her best friend. If she is going to confide in anyone it would be you, no?”
“No. I mean you’d think so.” Rudy creased his brow as he gave the matter some thought. Afia had been suspiciously quiet for two days. When he’d asked her about the progress of the seduction, she’d said, “I changed my mind.” Every time he asked her about Jake in general, she changed the subject. All he knew was that she was “learning the ropes,” and very soon she’d be tracking down Glick. Which should have made her happy since that was her reason for wanting to work for the P.I. in the first place. Instead she’d been unnervingly reserved. As her friend he wanted to know why. Maybe he could help. But Afia had shut him out of that portion of her life. She’d even declined his offers to drive her back and forth to daycare or the Bizby, opting to rely on public transportation. Harmon wouldn’t be happy about his goddaughter taking the jitney
, but he was still out of town, and damned if Rudy was going to call and tattle.
She was taking control of her life. Acting without guidance. Asserting her independence. This was a good thing. So why did he feel so blue? So … lonely?
Shaking off a surge of self-pity, he took a sip of his coffee and then frowned across the dining table at Jean-Pierre who was freshly showered, shaved and shirtless, and merrily pouring skimmed milk over his granola cereal. “Did you spike the coffee with cinnamon?”
“Oui.” Jean-Pierre glanced up, his huge brown eyes glittering with mischief. “I am trying to spice up your life, Bunny.” He paused, shoved his damp wavy hair off of his pretty boy face, and then flashed a coy smile. “Do you object?”
Rudy cursed the double meaning and the stirring south of his waistband. This was the closest Jean-Pierre had come to making an out-and-out pass, but the sparks had been flying since he’d moved in. The old Rudy would’ve been dancing in the sheets with Frenchie days ago. The man was young, hot and hung. He’d nearly swallowed his tongue the first time he’d gotten an eyeful of Jean-Pierre in his spandex running shorts. But Rudy wanted more than great sex. He wanted conversation, companionship, Christmas in Vermont. He wanted a life partner, and he wasn’t going to get that with a good-time Charlie seven years his junior. He cocked a lone brow meant to intimidate. “I object to the nickname.”
Jean-Pierre merely chuckled, calling attention to the tiny crinkles at the corners of his sparkling eyes, the brackets framing his full mouth. Laugh lines never looked so good.
Rudy slathered raspberry preserves on his wheat toast, cursing his roommate’s ability to light up a room on four hours of sleep. Due to an upcoming “special performance” for the Atlantic City elite, he’d been forced to bring home a few of the dancers’ costumes for some requested embellishments. Apparently the vice president of the Carnevale Casino was an enthusiastic fan of all things that glittered. Jean-Pierre’s instructions had been succinct. More rhinestones. More sequins. More cleavage.
Knowing that Jean-Pierre was overwhelmed, Rudy and Afia had pitched in, and the trio had stayed up until two in the morning adding enough “glitz and glam” to make a drag queen drool. Throughout, Afia had gabbed along with a smile—asking questions about the show, the performers, the hands-on V.P.—until Rudy had casually asked about Jake.
