by Beth Ciotta
“All I can think of,” he said, returning the discussion to safer ground, “is that Jake nixed the nookie, and Afia’s too embarrassed to discuss it.”
“Or,” Jean-Pierre said, toying with his cereal, “they are hot and heavy, and she is too embarrassed to discuss that.”
“If they were hot and heavy there’d be a spring in her step. Have you seen any ‘springing’?”
Jean-Pierre angled his head, pursed his lips. “No. Chou à la crème’s spring does seem to be sprung.” He took a sip of coffee. “Perhaps she is simply tired. The past two mornings she has risen before dawn in order to be at The Sea Serpent by six-thirty. Two hours with the children and then eight more with Jake. Then last night—”
“It’s more than that,” Rudy interrupted, growing more agitated with Leeds by the second. “If you could have heard her on the phone the other day. She was gushing. I’ve never heard Afia gush about any man. All she wanted was a fling. How could he not be into that? She’s beautiful. Inside and out.”
“Perhaps he wanted more than a meaningless fling. Have you thought of that, Rudy?”
It was the sound of his name that caused his head to snap up, and the sincere look in Jean-Pierre’s eyes that made his stomach drop. In the month that he’d known the man, he’d never known him to be less than a smart-ass. Sincere was way more unsettling.
“Perhaps Jake senses that Afia is special. Special warrants more than a few passionate encounters, would you not agree?”
Pulse hammering, he gently set his empty cup in the saucer and stroked his bearded chin, unable to articulate an answer.
Jean-Pierre picked up the insulated carafe, rounded the table and then leaned into him and filled his cup with more “spiced” coffee. “I suggest the best course is to relax, to take one day at a time, and to keep an open mind, no?”
Rudy grunted, his mouth going dry at the feel of Jean-Pierre’s hand on his shoulder and the mingling scents of cinnamon and Calvin Klein’s Eternity. “We are talking about Jake and Afia, right?”
Jean-Pierre merely chuckled.
She was late. Again.
Afia stood in front of the Bizby, dreading having to explain to Jake why she was late for the fifth morning in a row. Not that he’d ask. He never asked. He just sat there looking at her with those unsettling green eyes—assessing, waiting—until she blurted out something stupid.
Yesterday she’d apologized without offering any explanation at all, because the truth was too embarrassing. Even though she’d left the daycare center on time, two jitneys had passed her by before a third had finally curbed at the shuttle stop and let her board. Unfortunately, she’d ended up in the Marina district instead of downtown. The shuttles were extremely affordable but had different routes and destinations, and she’d hopped the wrong one. Not wanting to risk another fiasco, she’d hired a taxi to drive her back into town. Still, she’d walked into the office twenty-five minutes late. If looks could burn, she’d be a pile of ash.
Today she was only fifteen minutes late, but she wagered she’d get far more than a withering glare. Jake would take one look at the shopping bag in her hand and assume the worse. He might not say it, but he’d think it. She’d blown off work to go shopping. Had she no sense of responsibility? No control?
She might actually have to offer up an explanation for this one. It was either that or be a doormat. Could she actually say it? I’m inept with children. Two days ago, Billy had given her a black eye. Yesterday, Sasha had bitten her. Today, David had slashed a black marker across the thigh of her pink denim pants with the intent of giving her a tattoo. Then Mya, the munchkin from hell, had soaked her striped silk blouse by heaving a cup of cranberry juice in the heat of a full-blown tantrum.
Not having time to return to Rudy’s apartment, on a whim she’d slipped into the discounted clothing store two doors down from the Bizby. She’d purchased and changed into an inexpensive pair of drawstring pants and a Mighty Mouse T-shirt. While she was at it she’d picked up those cheap white sneakers she’d been wanting. Though not the most chic of outfits, she was certainly dressed well enough for dumpster diving (should that be on today’s agenda).
With her soiled Chanel ensemble rolled into the shopping bag, she groaned and fell back against the Bizby’s brick front. She was exhausted. Too many days of too little sleep and too much drama. It was a beautiful day. Clear and sunny. She breathed deeply, wanting to go for a stroll on the beach, knowing she really had to get inside. Several people walked by. Not one gave her a second look. Dress to blend. She couldn’t help but smile. There was something to be said for being invisible.
Even her shopping spree had been low-key. In and out in less than ten minutes. She’d spent under twenty dollars, and she’d still felt a little rush. It occurred to her that she didn’t have to spend a fortune to achieve instant gratification. According to Rudy, compulsive shoppers shopped to fill a void, to cope with feelings of loneliness or anxiety. She didn’t like to think of herself as a shopaholic. But over the past few years she had spent a lot of money. She’d amassed an enormous wardrobe, including coordinating shoes, handbags, and hats. Then there was the art and furniture she’d purchased to renovate Frank’s cold, contemporary homes. She had been lonely, even when she’d been married.
Her brow crinkled. As much as she hated to admit it, Rudy was right. She’d hooked up with men she had no chance of connecting with emotionally. Wealthy, career-driven men who’d treated her like a fragile ornament. Men who made her feel safe and treasured, but not exactly challenged or sexy. Friends of her father’s. It was a sobering thought.
Especially since these days she felt extremely challenged. Dealing with the children at the daycare center was almost a snap compared to dealing with Jake. He’d taken her interest in learning the investigative trade more seriously than she’d expected. Over the last two days, he’d lectured and quizzed her on body language, street sense, and the nuances of gathering information via standard and not-so-standard interviews. In addition, they’d worked on her computer skills by intensifying the investigation on Anthony Rivelli, an investigation that was thus far dead in the water. Jake was a demanding teacher, and though there were times she wanted to scream in frustration because she was technically challenged, he’d remained calm and supportive telling her that in time she’d “get it.”
As for the investigative end, although she was uncomfortable poking into people’s private lives, she understood the need in certain instances and found the process fascinating.
Almost as fascinating as Jake. In the midst of returning a folder to one of the locking file cabinets, she’d noticed several cases involving spousal abuse and missing children. No wonder he’d reacted so strongly to her swollen eye. He operated in an ugly world where people did unspeakable things. She wondered how he slept at night, but then she realized that it was probably because of his work that he found some peace. Instead of standing on the sidelines, he actively aided and protected the persecuted. Obviously, he was a man of great compassion. So, how was it possible that he was intolerant of the gay population? And how was it possible that she was still attracted to him knowing of this offensive glitch in his make-up? The questions had plagued her for two days and made her squirm with guilt every time she looked into Rudy’s eyes. She felt like a traitor, and yet she’d aborted the seduction. What’s more, she’d gone out of her way to shield her friend from Jake’s contempt by making sure they didn’t come into contact.
I haven’t done anything wrong.
Heart pounding, she glanced down at her watch. Great. Now she was twenty minutes late. She pushed off of the wall at the same time Jake pushed through the front door, nearly plowing her over.
He caught her before she teetered backwards. “You own a cell phone, Afia. Use it. If you’re going to be late at least have the courtesy to call so I don’t have to worry.”
She blinked up at him, flustered by his penetrating glare. “I’m sorry. I … I …” He’d been worried? “You have my n
umber. You could have called me.”
“I tried. It helps if your phone is actually turned on.” He released her, pressed the office key in her hand and then headed for his car. “I’ll be back in a while.”
She trotted after him. “Where are you going? What’s wrong?” Something was definitely wrong. This wasn’t just about her. It couldn’t be. “Is it your sister? Is she okay?”
“Joni’s fine. Just go up and … do some research on the next dancer on the list.” He wrenched open the car door and climbed inside.
So this was about Rivelli? Yesterday Angela had denied ownership of the black fishnets they’d found in her fiancé’s trash, suggesting they investigate the cast of the Venetian Vogue, the Carnevale’s featured show. After talking to Jean-Pierre, Afia had to admit there might be cause for worry. She opened the passenger door and slid in next to Jake. “As it happens I have quite a bit of information on each of the girls. I spoke to someone last night and—”
“Get out of the car, Afia.”
“No.” Okay, so this wasn’t about Rivelli. Jake wouldn’t be this tense over a suspected playboy. She tossed the shopping bag in the back seat then buckled her safety belt, determined to ride this out.
“We’ll talk about it when I get back.”
“Okay.” She locked her door. “So where are we going?”
He narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice to a menacing growl. “We’re not going anywhere. I’m going to help a client. Now please get out of the car. I don’t have time for this.”
“Then you better get going.” She crossed her arms over her chest in defiance.
He keyed the ignition. “You’re a pain in my ass.”
She feigned a relaxed smile, nearly choking on the charged air. “So who’s this client?”
“Nancy Ashe.” He pulled away from the curb, made a U-turn, and then a left on Atlantic Avenue and headed south.
“Who’s Nancy Ashe? And be warned,” she teased, frantically trying to ease the strain, “if you say a client, I’ll punch you.” He didn’t smile, not even a smirk, and that worried her. She leaned to the left, peeked at the dash. It also didn’t bode well that he was going 45 mph in a 25 mph zone. “Is she hurt?”
“Not yet.”
Afia swallowed hard, not liking the answer, not liking his tone. She especially didn’t like the way he reached up under his shirt and adjusted the gun she knew was there. “Maybe we should call the police.”
“She doesn’t want the police. That’s why she called me.”
Afia bit her tongue as he slowed at a red light, looked both ways then drove on. Oh, boy.
“There’s a restraining order against Marty. If she calls the police, they’ll put him in jail.”
“But if there’s a chance he might hurt her, if there’s a restraining order, well, obviously this Marty’s dangerous and he should go to jail.”
“I agree.” The tires squealed as he swerved right onto Route 40. “When he’s drunk, Marty Ashe is one mean bastard. But Nancy isn’t going to budge. She barely had the courage to kick the son of a bitch out, she’s not about to piss him off further by putting him behind bars. He’d only retaliate when he got out. They always do.”
She cringed at his jaded tone. “Marty’s her husband?”
“Unfortunately.”
She thought about one of the cases she’d skimmed. The pictures she’d unfortunately peeked at. The bloodied lip. The broken arm. Her voice jumped an entire octave. “And he’s with her now?”
“He’s pounding on the back door. Making threats. Apparently he wants to move back in. She hasn’t buckled yet and, thankfully, neither has the door.”
Afia shook off a shiver. “What does she want you to do?”
He gunned the accelerator and flashed a smile that held no mirth. “Scare the hell out of him.”
Stunned into silence, she rubbed her goose-pimply arms and focused on the road. She had no doubt that Jake Leeds was capable of scaring the hell out of Satan. And any man who beat up on a woman was surely in league with the devil. “If you end up having to shoot him, don’t worry. I know a good lawyer.”
He laughed then, breaking the eerie tension, and just like that Afia knew somehow, some way, everything was going to be all right. But just in case … She unclasped her charm bracelet, leaned over and dropped it in Jake’s shirt pocket. “For good luck.”
She expected him to roll his eyes, or to make her take back the bracelet. She didn’t expect him to snag her hand and to press a kiss to the inside of her wrist. “Thanks, baby.”
Chapter Thirteen
Jake attributed his rounding the corner of the house just as Marty had pried open the back door to exquisite timing. That Marty had turned when he’d beckoned him, rather than continuing over the threshold toward a white-faced Nancy, he chalked up to human reflex. His ability to coax the inebriated bastard into the backyard was due to his police training and superb bullshitting skills.
It was the black cat that had lunged out of nowhere, streaking across Marty’s path and tripping the bastard just as he’d aimed a revolver at Jake that had him presently cruising the Internet. The bullet that had whizzed by his ear might have gone through his chest if not for that cat. A cat that had duly disappeared. A cat that no one in the neighborhood claimed.
Coincidence or luck?
Jake sat at his desk, eyeing the polished cat charm on Afia’s bracelet while typing SUPERSTITIONS into the search engine and contemplating his brush with disaster. Marty Ashe was a bully. A man who attacked with obscenities and fists. The fact that he’d obtained a gun was a surprise and, in a warped way, a blessing. Unlike Nancy, Jake wasn’t afraid to press charges.
Marty was looking at some deserved jail time.
A multitude of listings came up on the computer screen. Jake clicked on one after another, noting in particular the superstitions pertaining to black cats. Depending on the culture, beliefs differed. In the Orient, black cats symbolized poverty and ill-health, while Scottish superstition claimed a strange black cat on your porch brought prosperity. Though considered unlucky in the European and European-American traditions, in the African-American sporting world, the black cat granted invisibility and the return of lost love as well as money luck.
The clichéd and most common belief was that black cats conjured bad luck, while others touted exactly the opposite. Apparently there was an “evil” black cat and a “good” black cat.
To see a black cat cross your path brings bad luck.
To see a black cat walk toward you brings good luck.
And assorted variations.
Any way you looked at it, if one was given to superstition, Marty Ashe had been foiled by a black puss. The bastard’s bad luck had been Jake and Nancy’s good fortune.
Jake’s skeptical brain spun in circles as he fingered Afia’s bracelet. A gift from her father. A father she adored. A father who’d told her that she needed all the luck on earth, not because he believed her to be jinxed, but because her mother had an absurd fear of Friday the thirteenth, amongst other things. He wondered what an intelligent man like Judge Bradley St. John could’ve seen in such an irrational woman. He typed PARASKEVIDEKATRIAPHOBIA into the search engine only to learn that over twenty-one million Americans suffered from the phobia. Amazingly, fear of Friday the thirteenth appeared to be the most widespread superstition in America. So it wasn’t as if Giselle was a freak of nature. As for the judge, well, whether the man was superstitious or not he’d given Afia a gift that perpetuated the belief in lucky talismans.
Since Jake subscribed to the notion that children are products of their parents, Afia’s easy acceptance of ancient superstitions made perfect sense. Had he been reared in a whimsical household, perhaps he’d be walking around with a lucky token in his pocket. When it came down to it, how was rubbing a rabbit’s foot any different than stroking rosary beads? How did believing in the power of the supernatural differ from believing in the power of a Supreme Being? Who was he to judge?
When Afia had slipped the bracelet into his pocket he’d been touched and, okay, a little amused. As if a charm bracelet was going to offer more protection than his Glock and honed boxing skills. But then there’d been that cat, and although logic supported coincidence, curiosity, and Afia, had him contemplating luck.
“I just got off of the phone with Nancy.”
Jake glanced up from the computer screen as the woman of his obsession walked into his office and sank down in the chair across from his desk. She slumped rather than sitting rigidly in her usually prim way. She looked exhausted, but gratified, and his heart tripped at the jazzed twinkle in her eyes.
“She thought it over and decided to take my advice. She’s going to visit the Atlantic County Women’s Center on Monday. I’m so relieved.”
“So am I,” Jake said, amazed and grateful that Afia had been able to convince Nancy to seek professional help. While he’d been filling in the patrolmen on the details of the attempted shooting, she’d been in the house “having a talk” with Nancy. Considering the volatile situation, Afia’s calm demeanor had impressed him. “I’ve been trying to talk Nancy into visiting the center for months.” He minimized the “superstition” document and leaned back in his chair. “How is it that you know so much about a place that councils battered women?”
Cheeks tinged with pink, she shrugged and looked away. “I served on the Seashore Charity Committee for years. I’m familiar with most of the non-profit social service agencies in Southern Jersey. But I’m ashamed to say that I don’t have much hands-on experience. I’ve never actually been to the ACWC. I told Nancy I would meet her there. For support. With me there, maybe she won’t back out.” She glanced at Jake with a shaky smile. “I need to take an active part in society rather than standing on the sidelines.”
