by M. S. Parker
“Right,” she said with a frown. “Synonyms are the words that mean the same thing.”
He smiled down at her, then turned to Jenna. “Hi, I’m Scott.”
“Jenna.” She shook his hand, then took Michael’s pro-offered hand.
“Michael.”
“And I’m Danielle.” She darted forward and wrapped her arms around Jenna’s waist. “You’re my sister.”
Jenna looked startled, but not discomforted by the contact. She hugged the little girl back. “Yes, I am. My name’s Jenna.”
“That’s a pretty name,” Danielle said as she grabbed Jenna’s hand. “Do you want to see my room? It’s purple, and I have a poster of Hope Solo on my wall. She’s the best soccer player in the world.”
“We still have about fifteen minutes before dinner will be ready,” Michael said. “You’re welcome to join me in the living room, or you can go see Danielle’s room if you want.”
One look at those big brown eyes and there was no doubt in my mind where Jenna was going. With a squeal of delight, Danielle pulled Jenna toward the stairs, leaving me with Michael and Scott.
“I’m happy to help with dinner,” I said before the silence could get awkward.
“I’ve got everything under control, but you’re welcome to come into the kitchen and keep me company,” Michael said.
Scott and I both followed Michael into the kitchen where the most amazing smells were coming from the stove. The taller man took the lid off a large metal pot and stirred the contents.
“Scott may be the superhero paramedic, but he’s useless in the kitchen,” Michael said. “Everyone always seems surprised that the mechanic is the cook, but what can I say? My mom taught me well.”
“I checked out the website for Burkart Investigations,” Scott said as he pulled out a chair for me. “I’m sorry about your partner.”
I’d completely forgotten that Maggie had updated the website after Adare’s death. “Thank you.”
“I hope you don’t mind me asking this but was Ms. Burkart your business partner only or…” Michael sounded as concerned as he was curious.
“Mentor and boss,” I said with a tight smile. “And a friend, but nothing romantic.” I nudged the conversation away from painful thoughts of my friend. “It was my boyfriend who introduced me to Jenna, actually.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sure the loss of your friend isn’t something you want to talk about,” Michael said. “Sometimes my curiosity gets away from me.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “It makes sense that you want to know about me. I showed up in your life out of nowhere. You wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to hurt your family.”
“We just want to do what’s best for Danielle,” Scott said.
“That’s what Jenna wants too,” I assured them.
“Then today, we’ll make a toast to a new member of the family,” Michael declared. “Two new members. Scott, get out the wine. You know which bottle.”
Scott grinned with the slightest hint of an eye roll. “I know which bottle because he always has one pre-selected anytime we have guests ‘just in case’ we need to make a toast.”
I laughed as he moved to a wine cabinet. Some alcohol and relaxing conversation were exactly what I needed.
Twenty-Seven
“You want me to investigate your husband for what?” I barely managed to keep the laughter from my voice as I asked for confirmation of what I thought I heard.
Patricia Mauricio was at least eighty-five years-old and looked like my dim memory of Granny Quick, the only one of my grandparents I’d ever known. Pure white hair in tightly rolled curls, lavender cardigan over her floral housedress, horn-rimmed glasses on a silver chain.
“My Gus and I got married in 1950, four days before he shipped out for Korea. Our son, Patrick, was born nine months later,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief. “We have four children, seven grandchildren, thirteen great-grandchildren, and three great-great-grandchildren. We made it through three years of war and the problems that came home with him. We survived six more years with the army and then the closing of the steel mills back home in Ohio. We’ve made it through a lot of things that would’ve torn apart a marriage, but I don’t know if we can make it through this.”
I opened my mouth, considered what I’d been about to say, then closed it. I liked to think I was a pretty tactful person, but I wasn’t sure how to approach my concerns without sounding like I was mocking her. Because I wasn’t. It just wasn’t the sort of thing I’d expected when she walked in my door fifteen minutes ago.
“Mrs. Mauricio,” I began, “you said you suspect your husband of ‘committing dietary infidelity.’” I used the same phrase she had.
“That’s right.” She sniffled and wiped her nose. “It started right after Thanksgiving. I knew something was wrong when he quit taking a second piece of my award-winning blueberry pie, but I thought maybe he was sick or trying to lose weight – heaven knows he has a few more pounds on that spare tire than he should.”
“Or maybe he lost his taste for blueberries,” I suggested. “I’ve heard that people’s taste buds change as they get older.”
She reached across the desk and patted my hand. “You don’t understand, dear. Gus and I met at the county fair when I was sixteen and he was seventeen. I had a blueberry pie in the pie contest, and Gus was one of the judges, because of him being the preacher’s son. He told me later that he would’ve voted for my pie even if it hadn’t been the best thing he’d ever tasted because no girl would go out with a guy who’d criticized her baking.”
“Still,” I said gently, “almost seventy years of blueberry pie adds up.”
“It’s not just the pie,” she said, her eyes welling up again. “He’ll tell me that he’s going to the hardware store for something or to see one of the kids, and when he gets back at lunch or dinner, he says he’s not hungry. I’ve made him all his favorites. Spaghetti and meatballs. Pot roast. Ribs. Lamb chops. All the things he always said he loved.”
Okay, that was odd. It didn’t necessarily mean that he was cheating on her, but the fact that he was consistently saying he wasn’t hungry was concerning, for his health if not for any other reason.
“Then, two days ago, I was making peach cobbler and ran out of sugar, so I went to the store to get some. On my way home, I saw him…” She let out a choked sob. “He was coming out of Taylor Denison’s house with a covered plate.”
“Did you ask him about it? There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation.”
She shook her head, and a plastic curler flew out of her hair and hit the wall. She didn’t seem to notice. “I tried. He went straight to the garage when he came home. When I went out there to talk to him, he shoved something into a drawer and said I should knock. I couldn’t ask him about it then, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that covered plate.”
“So you think it’s this Taylor Denison that he’s sleeping with because that’s where he’s eating?” I asked, latching onto the one part of the story that I could use for an investigation.
She gave me a puzzled look. “Taylor’s a man.” I was still trying to figure out the best way to tell her that Taylor’s gender didn’t exactly mean he and Gus weren’t having sex when she added, “Gus isn’t having that sort of affair. We’re intimate three or four times a week, and he’s an attentive lover.”
More information than I needed or wanted, but I kept my expression blank.
“He’s having a food affair, Ms. Quick, going to his friend Taylor’s house and letting that man cook for him. Eating his food.” She wiped her eyes again. “I don’t know what to do.”
“I’ll do what I can to help you,” I said finally. I had no idea how else I was supposed to respond. I didn’t want to take her money, but it was clear she was upset.
“Oh, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, do you have Taylor’s address?” I asked.
She nodded and rattled it
off. I jotted it down and then asked the one other thing I needed to know. “Do you know where your husband is?”
I double-checked the address before knocking. I was about to have a strange conversation, and I didn’t want to repeat it.
The man who answered the door a minute later was tall and wiry, with long jet-black hair and deep wrinkles that made his age impossible to guess. His bronzed skin made me think he had some Native American blood, but he didn’t have a trace of an accent when he spoke.
“May I help you?”
“I’m looking for Gus Mauricio. Is he here?”
“Gus!” The man I assumed was Taylor called over his shoulder as he gestured for me to come in. “You have a visitor.”
As soon as I stepped inside, I could smell something. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it wasn’t familiar either. Meat and spices and something I couldn’t put my finger on. It was well past noon, but I wondered if I’d interrupted them at lunch.
A door at the end of the short corridor to my right opened, and a portly man with wisps of gray hair came out.
“Gus Mauricio?” I held out my hand as I stepped forward. He nodded as he gave me a quick shake. “I’m Rona Quick. I’m a private investigator with Burkart Investigations.”
“Pats sent you, didn’t she?” He looked slightly sheepish, as if he knew exactly what circumstances had led to me being there.
“She did.” I’d already planned on being straightforward about this, but the fact that he already knew that his wife had hired me eased some of my anxiety. “Mr. Mauricio, I’ll be honest, I really think the best way for me to do what your wife asked is to just come out and ask rather than skulking around trying to figure out what you’re doing. She’s worried about you not eating at home, and I’d like to be able to go back to her with a reasonable explanation.”
He glanced at his friend and nervously ran his hand over what little bit of hair he had. “Venison,” he mumbled.
“What was that?”
“We’re making venison jerky,” he blurted out. “Taylor and me, we got this idea for new spices to add to the venison jerky he makes every year. We’re going into business together, and I didn’t tell Pats because I knew she’d tell me it was crazy to invest in something like pickled herring flavored jerky, but it’s going to be huge. I know it.”
For the third time that day, I was speechless.
Fortunately, he kept talking. “We’ve been experimenting with different flavors which means we have to taste test them. By the time I go home, I’m so full, I can’t eat another bite. Not even Pats’ cooking.” He grabbed my hand in earnest. “Please, you can’t tell Pats. She’ll be angry at me for not talking to her about it first.”
“I can’t keep it from my client,” I said. His face fell. “But I can offer to give you until six o’clock tonight to tell her yourself.”
I wasn’t sure which terrified him more, the thought of me telling his wife or the thought of having to tell her himself, but he agreed to talk to her as soon as he got home. I managed to hold in the laughter until I was safely in my car.
Venison jerky.
Some people.
Twenty-Eight
I closed the Mauricio case after I received a call from a contrite Gus apologizing for taking up my time. He told me they’d mail the check the next day, with a bonus for all the problems they’d caused. I said it wasn’t necessary, but he insisted.
I’d already finished my paperwork by the time he called, so after I hung up, I headed home. When the weather got better, I was going to move my things over to the upstairs apartment. I wasn’t hurting for money, but there was no point in paying rent if I had a place free and clear, with only property taxes to pay. The thought of being there, living where Adare had lived, no longer freaked me out. In a way, it was almost comforting.
I was rummaging through the fridge for something to eat when someone knocked on my door. After the whole Elise thing two days ago, I wasn’t about to open my door without seeing who it was. This time, at least, I was happy to see who was on the other side. Or I was until I opened the door and saw the grim expression on Clay’s face.
“What’s wrong?” I moved aside to let Clay in.
He didn’t sit down, and he didn’t take off his coat, which I knew meant whatever had brought him here was even more serious than I’d initially thought.
“Serge is dead.”
It took a moment for the words to register, and even then, I didn’t quite believe them. “He’s dead?”
“I was just down at the morgue,” he said as he walked over to one of my front windows and looked out. “FCPD pulled a body from a dumpster behind the Lory Student Center and ran his prints. It came back as our guy.”
“When did he…?” I leaned against the table. “How…I don’t even know what to ask?”
“They haven’t done a full autopsy yet,” Clay said, “but whatever the final report says, it’s going to be violent and painful.”
I opened my mouth to ask for specifics – the asshole had beat and drugged me, after all – but then I took another look at the haunted shadow in Clay’s eyes and thought better of it. It had to be bad if it made him look like that.
“Do you think it was rivals or his employers?” I asked. Those mysterious employers that I’d thought might have been my father. Which reminded me, “Any word on my dad?”
“Nothing on any of it,” he said. “The FBI took over the investigation, but the chances of it leading anywhere are slim. Serge was a middleman, not important enough to know the big names, but important enough to make problems.”
“And my dad?”
“We’ve gotten in a ton of tips, and we’re working with the Indiana cops to follow up on them, but so far, there hasn’t been anything solid.” His phone buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pocket.
As I watched, his face paled, and he cursed.
“News?”
“Pack a bag.” He disappeared into my bedroom.
“Hey, jackass!” I followed. “You don’t go into a girl’s bedroom without an invitation.”
He was at the window when I entered but didn’t turn around. “Pack a bag, Rona. I’m serious.”
“Yeah, you sound serious,” I said, crossing over to stand behind him. “But you haven’t given me a good reason why. Or any reason, for that matter.”
He turned now, and I was surprised to see how shaken he looked. “Our techs just managed to get into the phone we found near the dumpster. Everything points to it being Serge’s phone and one of the numbers in it is from DC.”
“A lot of people live in DC,” I said as his meaning sunk in. “Do we know for sure it belongs to someone in the government?”
“We’re still running the numbers, but Ray and I don’t want to take any chances. You need to come to Denver with me.” He went to my closet and opened it, then stopped. “Where’s your suitcase?”
“I’m not going to Denver,” I said. “I’m fine here. Just because someone in the government might be involved with the trafficking ring that kidnapped me doesn’t mean I’m in danger.”
“No,” he agreed, “it doesn’t, but the fact that your license was found next to the phone probably does.”
The ‘mugging’ seemed so long ago that I’d all but forgotten that my license had been taken. My Colorado license. With this address.
“It’s possible that Serge could have passed along your information, but even if he didn’t, the people who killed him almost definitely have it.”
I shoved my hands in my pockets and tried to pretend that the thought didn’t chill me to the bone. “If they do, they haven’t done anything about it. Why would they wait?”
Clay folded his arms and glowered down at me. “That’s not a chance I’m willing to take.”
“That’s not your choice to make.”
“Are you seriously doing this, Rona? I’m just trying to protect you.”
I shook my head. “If I’m going somewhere, it’s going to be my choice. I have a j
ob I love here, and I doubt it’ll survive me being gone again for who knows how long.”
“You can’t be worrying about work when your life is at stake,” he argued.
“For someone who works as a profiler, you’ve been pretty shit with figuring out how I think,” I said mildly. “Jalen and I were going to meet in a few hours to go to a New Year’s Eve party for his work. I’ll stay with him for a few days.”
To Clay’s credit, he didn’t immediately dismiss the idea. He didn’t look happy about it, but he at least took a minute to think about it. “All right,” he said finally. “Jalen has state-of-the-art security. You’ll be safe there too.”
“Don’t sound so thrilled,” I said. “You and Jalen are going to have to get over your issues, you know.”
“If he keeps you safe, I’ll consider it.” He leaned down and picked up a duffel bag. “Now, pack.”
Twenty-Nine
Instead of closing completely, Jalen’s company, Sylph Industries, allowed for voluntary work for double overtime on all major religious and federal holidays, as well as a couple days around them for a few minor ones. When I pulled into the parking lot, only a handful of cars remained, though Jalen had told me that almost two-thirds of his employees had come in for half a day. I parked next to Jalen’s car and then headed around to the private entrance he’d given me the code for rather than entering the public entrance like I had last time.
My footsteps echoed as I made my way to the elevators. The lights were on, but the lobby still felt dark in that abandoned way that only empty buildings could feel. When I stepped off the elevator, I saw a couple of people scattered through the cubicles and desks, but they barely glanced at me as I made my way to Jalen’s office. I had to give them credit for being attentive to their work when most people would’ve been goofing off.
I knocked on Jalen’s door even though it was open, hating to disturb the look of concentration on his face. When he raised his head, however, his smile was one hundred percent genuine.
