by Nancy Martin
Roxy tugged the tarp down and took another look at him. His face looked empty, just the way she liked her men. But, God, he was beautiful. Probably worth a fortune.
“Are you going to be a lot of trouble?” she asked. “Because I prefer to get rid of trouble fast.”
8
On the phone from her bed in the nursing home, Dorothy Hyde said, “Can we pin it on Monica?”
Henry nearly choked on his morning coffee. “I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t get the vapors,” Dorothy snapped. “Pretend it’s my dementia talking. If Monica killed my son, a lot of problems would be solved. The insurance company would have to pay us the settlement on the house, and the share of Julius’s estate that would have gone to his wife could stay in the family.”
“Have you suggested this scenario to anyone else, Mrs. Hyde?”
“Of course not. I’m old, but I’m not crazy. What do you think? Can we come up with some evidence?”
“I’m not entirely comfortable with—”
“Comfortable! I’m the one they tie to the bed at night! Don’t talk to me about comfort. I’m getting irritated with your lack of enthusiasm, Henry. I don’t suppose you’ve found my Achilles yet either, have you?”
“I have some promising leads.”
“Leads! What are you—Philip Marlowe? Leads are not good enough. Call me when you’ve got something worthwhile to say for yourself.”
She banged down the telephone and left Henry’s ear ringing.
He turned off his phone and threw it onto the sofa with more force than he intended. The old bat was a menace to his mental health. A few calming breaths, and then he could think clearly again.
It occurred to him for the first time that perhaps he had miscalculated.
But with Monica settled into a suite of rooms at Hilltop and her wishes attended to by the hastily reassembled staff of the estate, Henry decided he could leave her for a day. In fact, it might be smart to let the widow contemplate her options for a while. She seemed entirely unaware that the family was putting up with her only as long as it took them and the insurance company to decide her role in the settlement of the house fire.
Not to mention Dorothy’s brainstorm.
When Henry told Monica he needed to make a trip into the city, she got teary-eyed all over again. “Oh, Henry, you’re going to find Samson for me, aren’t you?”
He assured her Samson was his highest priority, and Monica nearly kissed him good-bye. He’d seen the impulse glowing in her eyes. Perhaps a little Texas two-step was in his future.
Armed with a list of people Julius Hyde might have contacted to sell off his art—a list Monica had been happy to collaborate on as long as Samson was still in the picture—Henry made only a few phone calls from the car before he realized he was going about his investigation far too straightforwardly. It would be much smarter, he decided, to ambush people.
Which is how he found himself pushing through the plate-glass door of a pizza parlor at lunchtime. A plate-glass door, in fact, that had obviously been kicked in by burglars and was now held together with duct tape.
The heavy smell of garlic hung in the humid air of the shop. A heart-stopping menu was posted on the wall above the antique cash register. The printed prices of various cholesterol-heavy items had been crossed out with a marker and replaced with new numbers.
The patrons of Bruno’s Pizza and Subs—most of them hunched over sandwiches at small, wobbly tables and watching Judge Judy on a small television behind the counter—turned to look at Henry when he entered. He made a mental note to leave his Burberry raincoat behind next time if he had any hope of blending into the neighborhood. Everyone including the proprietor—who had just skimmed a hot pizza onto the counter with a big wooden paddle—seemed to favor multiple layers of the hooded sweatshirt as their sartorial statement.
One guy with his mouth full of calzone and a severe case of plumber’s butt gave a particularly loud snort at Henry before turning back to his lunch.
At the counter making conversation with the swarthy proprietor stood a leggy brunette in jeans and boots and a shapeless sweatshirt that somehow managed to convey a spectacular shape beneath its folds. Her derriere was a thing of beauty. A crucifix dangled on a thin chain around her neck, and she leaned one elbow on the counter with the confident air of a woman who knew every male eye in the establishment had lingered on her for a moment’s fantasy.
Henry took a second to formulate on an appropriately working-class pickup line and headed across the pizza shop toward her. But in a heartbeat, the scene of blue-collar lunchtime tranquillity turned to chaos.
A man sitting at one of the small tables struck a flame on his plastic cigarette lighter and stuck it under the brunette’s beautiful bottom.
And with the speed of a striking rattlesnake, she scooped one hand under the pizza and flipped the whole pan—hot cheese and all—straight into the side of her attacker’s head. He howled, dropped the lighter, and used both hands to claw the steaming cheese out of his facial hair. His dining companion—snickering one instant, then leaping to escape a similar fate—was no match for the brunette. She clocked him with her fist. He grabbed his nose and fell straight back into his chair, which somersaulted over backward. Two soft drink cups flew into the air, and the customers at nearby tables jumped up to avoid getting splashed.
Everybody in the shop was suddenly cussing like truckers.
Henry stepped over the man who’d been punched—he was writhing in pain as he clutched his nose—and he took the elbow of the furious brunette.
Henry said, “May I escort you outside?”
She socked him in the gut, and Henry doubled over. When he could breathe again, he realized she had charged outside. He staggered after her, and arrived on the sidewalk in time for her to spin around with one fist cocked.
He grabbed his stomach and braced for another blow. “Miss Abruzzo?”
She withheld the punch and stared at him. “Who the hell are you? Prince Fucking Charming?”
“My name is Henry Paxton,” he replied, his voice strained. “And if I’m not mistaken, you are Roxy Abruzzo.”
Her dark eyes narrowed to slits. “Do I know you?”
“Not yet.” He straightened cautiously. “But we have a mutual acquaintance. Julius Hyde.”
“Had.” She took a step backward and lowered her fist. “I get it. You’re another cop? Boy, Bug does fast work.”
“I’m not a cop. But I’d like to talk to you about Julius.”
“If you’re not a cop, you can take a hike.” She turned on her heel.
Unaccustomed to being summarily dismissed by women, Henry experienced a dumbfounded moment before following her down the sidewalk. One hand still protectively clutched his stomach, so he made a conscious effort to stop the milquetoast business. “Miss Abruzzo, I think you and I have a similar stake in Julius’s death.”
Over her shoulder, she snapped, “I doubt it.”
“We’re both interested in his property,” Henry said. “And we’d both like to turn a buck, so to speak.”
She spun around at that, and he realized she was potentially beautiful. Her eyes were a fathomless black and disconcertingly direct. She had good bones and an athletic carriage. Not to mention a show-stopping body and those dark, velvet-lashed eyes that were probably best appreciated in intimate circumstances. But her hair looked as if it had been plugged into a light socket. And her clothes needed to be burned.
She jammed her forefinger into his chest, however, with all the charm of a longshoreman. “Listen up, chum. I’ve heard enough about Julius Hyde’s death to last the rest of my life. So you can pussyfoot around somebody else for information, got it?”
He grabbed her hand hard and didn’t let go. Two could play the tough game. “Let’s talk, Miss Abruzzo. You and me. About the things you got out of his house before he died.”
It wasn’t the manhandling that got through to her. Because he felt her tensile strength and knew she
could knock him down like a fly. But she stared directly into his face—her own going poker blank as she took stock of the situation.
Rather than confirm or deny, she said, “Not here. I don’t need the whole damn neighborhood knowing my business.”
“Excellent.” Henry regained his good cheer. “Where should we go?”
Roxy Abruzzo glanced down his body, perhaps taking in the Burberry or his neatly pressed shirt, his newly dry-cleaned trousers, his pair of Gucci loafers. Or maybe she took an entirely different measure of his manhood.
She disengaged her hand from his. “You live around here?”
Did her question suggest a different kind of meeting than the discussion Henry had proposed? “Unfortunately, no.”
She shrugged. “Okay, then, come with me.”
Henry had already identified her vehicle. He’d staked out her place of business a little before noon and followed her when she left the property. The little red Mustang had been easy to tail, and he’d watched her stroll into the pizza shop ten minutes ago. Sexy baby, indeed.
She’d left the car parked next to a fire hydrant.
He opened the passenger door and froze at the sight of an ugly speckled dog growling murderously on the front seat.
“Don’t mind Rooney,” she said. “He’s just a pup.”
The animal had a basso profundo growl and a thick, quivering strand of drool that hung from his lower lip. Spikes studded the heavy collar around his thick neck.
Roxy climbed into the driver’s seat and with a smack on the dog’s haunches sent him into the backseat. “Get in,” she said to Henry. “He’ll definitely shed on you, but he probably won’t bite.”
Henry eased onto the passenger seat. “Is this a dog or a rhinoceros?”
“Don’t worry. You won’t be getting to know him well.” She started the car and pulled away from the hydrant with neck-snapping acceleration. She turned down an alley and left the busy commercial street behind. The dog, meanwhile, panted at the back of Henry’s neck. The radio blasted an old rock song, and she sang a couple of bars—her voice low and full and sexy with vibrato.
She cut the radio and said, “What’s your name again?”
“Henry Paxton.” He handed over one of his ivory vellum business cards. “Attorney-at-law.”
She tossed the card onto the Mustang’s console without glancing at it. “And what do you want with me?”
“Straight to the point. I like that in a woman. I found your name on the list of contractors who helped dismantle the Hyde mansion. You deal in architectural salvage.”
“Where’d you get the list? You work for the city?”
“Monica Hyde was helpful.”
She glanced across at him. “You working for her?”
“Why so worried about who I work for?”
“What do you think I am, an idiot? A lawyer doesn’t come looking for me to hand over a lottery check.”
Despite her rough talk, she had a Cleopatra profile—a prominent nose counterpointed by a femininely sharp chin and a full mouth. He guessed her age to be early thirties, but it was hard to be sure. On the steering wheel, her hands were strong—short nails not exactly clean. She wasn’t skinny, but lean like one of those Olympic volleyball players who stripped down to a bikini to crush the competition.
She said, “I’m a 36C, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“Good to know if I need to buy you lingerie.”
“You buy your wife a lot of lingerie?”
“No wife. Not at the moment, anyway.”
She took a corner very fast and beat another car into the line of traffic, then touched the brake and glanced at him. “You almost look like a nice guy from the suburbs, Paxton—big house, two kids and a dog. But something’s not quite right.”
“You don’t like my tie?”
“That’s not it. You doing Monica?”
He replied, composed, “Monica is considerably older than I am.”
“And she was Julius Hyde’s wife. Well, you look smart enough not to shit where you eat. So tell me what you’re after, Counselor. You want I should go looking for some oak flooring for your snazzy office? Or maybe a nice stained-glass window for a Hyde mausoleum?”
Henry decided he should be careful not to show too many of his cards to this one, or she’d clean him out. “I’m trying to track down valuable items that disappeared from the Hyde house. Some of the family members have sentimental attachments, and now that Julius is dead, they’d like—well, mementos, you could say. I’m willing to pay for their return.”
“Things that disappeared? You mean stolen.”
“Things that have gone missing.”
“You calling me a crook?”
“No, no. I’m willing to buy back items that the family let go.”
“Like what?”
“The Hydes are known for their collection of art. Porcelain. Fine glass. Objets d’art.”
“Objets what?” she mocked. “That’s not what I deal in, Paxton. I buy and sell the heavy stuff—things that need to be hauled in a truck, not packed in tissue paper. You need an antique picker, not me. Those guys are the ones with dirty hands.”
“We’re afraid some of the larger objects in the collection may have gone missing, too.”
“Gone missing, huh? Nice euphemism.” She wagged her head. “I see this kind of thing in families all the time. The older generation decides to pay for their prescriptions by selling the farm when the rest of the family isn’t looking. Or they send their junk to the Salvation Army at tax time for a big tax deduction? They think they’re doing the world a big favor by dumping their broken lamps on the loading dock of some charity.”
Amused, Henry said, “You Pittsburghers are all alike.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You all have the same chip on your shoulder. The attitude that the whole world’s against you.”
“Fuck you. Want to know what usually happens? They take the tax deduction, then call the insurance company and say Grandma’s silver teapot got stolen. They get an insurance payoff, and the police come around my neighborhood looking for somebody who stole an ugly teapot, which is now taking up shelf space at the Goodwill store. You think I’m wrong?”
“I think you’re a reverse bigot, as a matter of fact.”
She made a crude suggestion, then drove through a yellow light, hung a right, and a moment later crossed traffic and pulled through a set of imposing wrought-iron gates. A cemetery. Elegant headstones appeared on either side of the car. Some of them decorated with flags, some with plastic flowers. One grave site sported a black and yellow bow with trailing ribbons.
She pulled over, braked, and threw the transmission into park.
Henry cleared his throat. “Sorry. I think we’re getting off on the wrong foot here, Miss Abruzzo.”
“Damn straight we did.”
“You have no earthly reason to trust me.”
Roxy Abruzzo turned in her seat and said, “You mean, why should I trust a guy who dresses like an FBI agent? And talks like he just fell off the HMS Pinafore?”
“A Gilbert and Sullivan aficionado. Now that’s a surprise.”
“Save the patronizing routine, will you, Paxton? I’m a busy woman.” Her dog emphasized her point by sticking his head between the seats, shoving his wet muzzle into Henry’s arm, and growling ominously.
Thinking the dog might snap his arm like a matchstick, Henry hastened to the gist of the matter. “I’d like to buy any pieces Julius Hyde or someone else might have given or sold to you. Price is no hindrance.”
“No hindrance?” She laughed. “You must think I have something really valuable.”
“Do you?”
“I have some spindles from the stairs and a big fireplace with griffins. Is that what you want? The fireplace?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Her eyes flickered with intelligence. Had he made an error in judgment? Was asking to buy the sculp
ture of Achilles a tactical blunder? He wondered if she might already be two steps ahead of him.
He tried another tack. “Perhaps you know some of the other dealers Julius might have spoken with. Is there someone else I should approach?”
“Dealers?” She grinned coldly. “Or do you mean fences?”
“Are you always this defensive?”
“When somebody insults me, yes. Next thing that’s going to happen is you saying maybe I killed Julius while I was hanging around his house.”
“Did you?”
“See what I mean?” She had a harsh laugh.
“Miss Abruzzo—”
Her phone rang, interrupting Henry. She arched her lovely hips off the seat to wrestle the cell phone out of her jeans. She flipped it open. “Yeah?”
A voice squawked on the other end of the line.
“I’m coming. I got sidetracked.”
The other voice again.
“I ordered a pizza, but something happened.” She glanced at Henry. “No, nothing like that. Give me ten minutes.”
Her caller hung up.
Henry said, “Problem?”
“You ask a lot of questions and don’t give many answers.” She slid her phone back into her jeans. “I’ve got places to be, Paxton.”
“So do I. But maybe we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“You’re looking for stolen goods,” she said. “I’ve got a fireplace to unload, but that’s it. If you want anything else, I suggest you keep going down that list of yours. Unless you’ve got something different in mind?”
Her direct gaze challenged Henry, and this time he felt sure she was measuring him.
He’d never met a woman with her particular brand of sex appeal—blunt, yes. Putting the possibility right out in the open. But simultaneously daring him to make the first move and warning what short work she could make of him. The SEXY BABY plate on the front of the car was half true. She was plenty sexy, but there was nothing babyish in her manner. No childishness in her frank gaze. No nonsense in her tone. As if communicating that sex with her would be an entirely different experience from anything else he’d ever known.
He found himself saying, “It’s a shame we didn’t meet under difference circumstances, Miss Abruzzo.”
