by Linda Grimes
While we’d waited for Mark, I’d asked Thomas to put my pin in his office safe, fairly sure there was no place more secure in the whole city. If he and Laura thought it odd for me to put it away, they didn’t say anything. Maybe they figured wanting to protect it was an aftereffect of the shock of seeing the rest of my possessions ruined by fire, smoke, and water. Hell, maybe it was. All I knew was, I couldn’t wear it anymore, and I couldn’t let it go.
We all leaned closer to my laptop. I squinted at the grainy, black-and-white image. The camera was focused on the area in front of the cashier, but in the background you could see two of the pumps.
“There,” Mark said when a man approached one of the pumps on foot. He filled a gas can, using a credit card at the pump to pay.
“Is that…?” I said.
The man turned his head enough to catch his profile.
“Keep watching,” Mark said. The man glanced toward the camera, affording us a brief view of his whole face.
“Loughlin torched my condo?” I said. “But why?”
“Don’t know, Howdy. We can’t find any connection between him and you, other than your client. We’ve already put extra people on Dr. Carson, of course, but when we add Mason and Jenny together with Aunt Helen, it’s starting to seem more like it might be some sort of vendetta against adaptors. I don’t know if he has something particular against you, or if you’re just next on his list.” He looked me right in the eye. “I want somebody on you at all times. I don’t want you out in public without armed protection.”
I thought about protesting—it was almost a reflex at this point to argue my ability to take care of myself—but frankly, after seeing my condo, I was feeling a tad vulnerable. And, you know, not stupid. Plus, as much as I wanted to hyperventilate whenever I thought about it, there was the little bun in my oven to consider. So I nodded my agreement.
“What about Thomas and Laura?” I said.
“I’ve put people on everyone in your extended family, as well as everyone who attended the service. As for Tom and Laura…” He looked at Laura with a small smile.
Laura cleared her throat. “I’m actually pretty good at taking care of myself. I was trained by the best, you know.” She grinned at Mark, and glanced at Thomas.
“But you’re…” I said. “I mean, didn’t the doctor tell you not to, um, kick people’s asses?”
Laura laughed. “She said I was in great shape, and that unless I experienced any unusual difficulties, it was fine to continue my usual physical regimen for the time being.”
Huh. Good to know. I was going to assume I’d get much the same advice when I got around to seeing a doctor. Which I supposed I’d have to do soon, but frankly right now catching a killer was a little more pressing.
Laura patted Thomas’s arm. “And I promise I’ll watch out for this guy.”
Kudos to my big brother for not wincing at the idea of his pregnant wife guarding him. Clenched his teeth a little, but didn’t full-on wince. “Mark, remember when you said you could get me a gun and a permit and I told you not to be ridiculous? I changed my mind,” he said.
Mark nodded. “Done. Howdy, you still have yours, or was it lost in the fire?”
“I left it with Billy when I went to Houston.” I didn’t even trip over Billy’s name. I couldn’t stop my heart from beating faster, but my high collar probably covered the pulse in my neck.
“I’ll get you one for D.C.”
“No need,” I said. “I’m going back to New York tonight.” Because if I remained in D.C., Thomas would expect me to stay with him and Laura, and I couldn’t. I would adjust to being around their happy family unit eventually, but I wasn’t there yet.
“What have you found out from John Smith?” I said. “I’m assuming that isn’t his real name.”
“You can’t assume anything in this business, Howdy,” Mark said, his tone seasoned with a touch of teacher, which he then softened with a smile. “Though in this case you’re right. Ivan Petrovich is a second generation Russian American whose family never quite assimilated. If they’re as tied to the Russian mafia—Bratva—as we suspect, there isn’t much hope we can scare him into talking. Nothing we can do to him would be worse than what Bratva would do if he gives away anything.”
“Great. So he’s useless.”
Mark shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. If I can manage a moment alone with him—unofficially—he might be more forthcoming. In the meantime, I’m heading back to New York myself. You can come with me on the company plane. That way I won’t have to put another man on you until we’re there. Maybe Billy, if he’s finished with his business. Do you know if he will be?”
“I, uh, don’t know for sure. His business sounded pretty open-ended.” Ha. Totally true. I only hoped I didn’t look as uncomfortable saying it as I felt.
Mark cocked his head, a question in his eyes. I ignored it.
“You’re with me, then,” he said at last. “We’ll leave as soon as you’re packed.”
I quirked my mouth. “Ready when you are. Everything I have is in my carry-on in Thomas’s trunk.” An awful thought occurred to me. “Shit!”
Three sets of alarmed eyes drilled into me.
“What?” Mark said. “Tell me.”
I sank back into my cushy leather desk chair and let the misery engulf me. “I have to go shopping.”
Chapter 15
“Do you want to stop by Billy’s and pick up your gun before I take you to your parents’ place?” Mark said, after we left the airport in a hot yellow Porsche 911, top up in deference to the subfreezing temperature. (Mark changed cars all the time. I thought he must have some sort of secret goal to get through every make and model in existence. Well, except a Yugo. I couldn’t picture him in a Yugo.)
The plane ride hadn’t been as awkward as I’d feared. There were several other agents with us—reinforcements to supplement the ones already guarding all the people who’d attended Aunt Helen’s funeral—so Mark couldn’t ask me any probing personal questions. Bonus: I’d had plenty of time to concoct natural-sounding answers to things he might be tempted to ask once we were alone, so I was ready for this one.
“I had a voice message from James.” Which I’d finally gotten around to listening to. He’d asked how I was doing (in a rather pointed way) and said to call him as soon as my job allowed. “Billy left the gun with him when he went to Houston. I can pick it up tomorrow. You can drop me at Brian’s.”
Mark nodded. “Don’t you think your parents will want you with them?”
“You know how Mom will get when she hears about my condo. I’m too tired for frantic mothering tonight. I’ll have more energy to face her tomorrow,” I said.
“And Brian’s couch is more comfortable than James’s futon?”
I laughed. “Not really, but James and Devon have already put in their time babysitting me. It’s Bri’s turn. Unless he has a new girl I’m not aware of?” Brian was forever drifting in and out of relationships, apparently addicted to the bloom of fresh romance. He wasn’t promiscuous for promiscuity’s sake—as near as I could tell, he honestly thought he was in love every time.
“No, he’s on his own for now. I’ve asked him to swear off the groupies until after we find Loughlin. He’ll probably be happy for your company. But maybe you’d better call and give him a chance to get rid of anything incriminating.”
I grinned. Like a lot of musicians, Brian did tend to indulge in recreational “creativity enhancement” (aka smoking weed) on occasion, but he wasn’t a pothead by any stretch. “I gave him a heads-up while you were pulling the car around. Anyway, he keeps it pretty well hidden ever since Mom stopped by unexpectedly with a pot of calamari noodle soup when he was sick. She thought it was dried oregano and added it to the soup before she left.”
Mark chuckled. “I’m surprised it bothered him.”
“It probably wouldn’t have if he could tolerate Mom’s calamari soup. As it was, he claims it was a waste of—and I’m quoting here—some
‘really good shit.’”
Another chuckle from Mark as he expertly negotiated through traffic—honestly, it was almost a relaxing ride—and then, out of left field, he said, “You gonna tell me what’s up with Billy?”
My stomach clenched. “What do you mean?”
“He’s not answering my calls. I haven’t been able to track him by other means either. Which means he’s purposely avoiding me. I’m curious as to why, since I can’t think of anything I’ve done to offend him”—he gave me a meaningful look—“lately.”
Crap. So not ready to deal with this. And I couldn’t pretend everything was fine, not with Mark and his super-spy senses. I’d have to be straight with him.
“It has nothing to do with you.” Okay, maybe not totally straight. But only slightly bent, so almost as good. “It’s me. And I’d really, really appreciate it if you’d give me some time to work things out with him before you dig into it any further. Please.”
He glanced at me (he never took his eyes off the road for long when he was driving). I could tell he was dying to ask more. “All right. As long as he’s not in any kind of trouble. I hope you guys work it out soon, though, because I could sure use his help with Loughlin.”
An awful thought struck me, one my mind had been too tangled with other thoughts to contemplate. “You don’t think Loughlin, or someone he’s working with, might have … I mean, Loughlin knows Billy’s face from the funeral, and after Billy chased him at the museum…” I couldn’t finish. My mouth was too dry.
Mark reached over the stick shift and covered one of my hands (which were currently gripping my knees tightly enough to leave bruises) with his own. His felt so warm I knew mine must be freezing. “Billy can take care of himself. There is no scenario I can imagine where Alec Loughlin could get the jump on him.”
I nodded stiffly, needing to believe it. Damn. What I needed was to do something. “Yeah. You’re right. Look, I’m available, even if Billy isn’t. Let me help. I think I proved I’m capable in Houston.”
“You did great in Houston, Howdy. I’m proud of you. But your skill set isn’t—yet—up to Billy’s. Not nearly.”
I couldn’t exactly deny that. “I might not be in his league, but I’m better than nothing,” I said.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but at this point you’re not. If I’m worried about you in the field, that’s a distraction for me. And distractions are dangerous.”
I might have argued more, but it occurred to me—once again—that, as much as I’d welcome a distraction of my own, it wasn’t only about me anymore.
* * *
Brian was ready for me, having ordered two large pizzas, one pepperoni, one Hawaiian. Not an anchovy in sight. Perversely, that brought a lump to my throat. Which made me feel like such an idiot I hit a pillow when Brian wasn’t looking. Remarkably cathartic, hitting things. Boxing might be worth continuing.
Mark had walked me into the Williamsburg apartment, leaving his car under the watchful eye of a member of the security team assigned to Brian. He hadn’t stayed, only told me to tell Billy to call him if I heard from him.
“Hey, sis,” Brian called from his tiny kitchen, “what do you want to drink? I have PBR, a couple of craft IPAs, and some fancy imported crap Thomas left here last time he visited.”
“Water for me, thanks,” I said, ripping the tops off the pizza boxes so we could use them as plates. “Bring some napkins, too, okay?”
He joined me on his lumpy sofa (honestly, he could afford better, but it wouldn’t jibe with his image of himself as a poor indie musician), bringing a PBR, a generic bottled water, and a handful of paper towels. “Hey, just like old times, huh?”
I used to crash on Brian’s couch after going to his shows, mainly to save him the trouble of seeing me all the way back to Mom and Dad’s. Not that I expected him to, but Mom and Dad would have killed him if he’d put me in a taxi on my own in the middle of the night back then.
“Yeah,” I said, smiling at his open and friendly face. “Fun. Thanks again for letting me stay over.”
“No problem. Hell, I sure wouldn’t want to tell Mom my place had been lit up.” He looked at me thoughtfully, his pupils only slightly dilated. “You okay? Really? It can’t be easy losing all your stuff.”
I sighed. “It sucks. Still, it is only stuff, right? Nothing that can’t be replaced.”
“Good attitude, sis. Hey, you wanna stream a movie or something? I don’t have a gig tonight.”
“Or a date?” I teased. There were very few non-show nights Brian didn’t spend with a girl.
He grinned. “Nah. Kirby dumped my ass. Said I wasn’t ‘evolved’ enough for her.”
I’d never even met Kirby. Just as well. It was hard enough to keep their names straight without having to worry about attaching faces to them. “Don’t you usually have one or two waiting in the wings?”
“Mark asked me to give it a break. And a few nights off won’t kill me. Frankly, I could use the rest.”
If he were any other guy, I’d think he was kidding around, or maybe bragging. But not Brian—he was way too ingenuous.
I gave him a friendly shove. “Poor exhausted baby. Okay, what do you want to watch?”
He grinned. “I’m cool with chick flicks, if you want. See? I can be evolved.”
Gah. Anything romantic would make me weepy for sure. “Yuck. No chick shit,” I said.
“Well … I was going to watch a Three Stooges marathon…”
Slapstick wasn’t really my thing, but if that’s what he’d been planning, I wasn’t going to spoil his evening. Besides, random wacky violence actually sounded pretty good. “Perfect,” I said.
* * *
A few hours later I was convinced I’d been totally wrong in my earlier assessments of the Stooges. They were obviously comedic geniuses. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed so hard.
“This is brilliant!” I said, for probably the fifth time. “Curly’s the sweetest, of course. Moe’s grumpy, but he’s smart. In his own way. And Larry is underrated—he’s a lot deeper than he first appears.”
“What about Curly Joe?” Brian asked seriously, like my opinion on the matter was the most important thing in the world.
“Let’s pretend he never happened,” I said, and giggled. “Maybe we can start an online petition. Get him removed from all things Stoogie.”
“Dude! Fantastic idea. Let me get my laptop. We can start with a web page, and then see if we can get it linked to Reddit. We’ll need the exposure.”
I sat up straight. “Yes! Whoa. Bri. You know what we should do? Call Sinead and Siobhan—they could design us an awesome website!” Lurking beneath Billy’s sisters’ excessive Doyle gorgeousness were the hearts and brains of dedicated Internet geeks.
“Great idea, sis!” He reached for his phone.
“Wait. Let’s get something to eat first. I’m starving.” And, boy, was I. Must be because I hadn’t been eating much for the past few days, what with one worry and another. Funny, but it all seemed kind of fuzzy and far away now.
Brian looked at me kind of funny. “You ate three-quarters of a pizza.”
“I know. I had some cookies, too, while you were in the bathroom. They tasted sooo good—did one of your girlfriends make them? If so, you should totally keep her.”
Now he looked really strange. “Um, sis … which cookies did you eat?”
“The chocolate chip ones. Oh, no! Should I not have done that? Were you saving them for something special? Tell me they weren’t your Christmas gift for Mom!”
He grinned. “Nope, definitely not a gift for Mom.”
“What, then?”
“Ciel, those were my, um, special cookies.”
I giggled. “Special? So, like, did you give them names? Did I eat little Sammy or Harry? Stephanie or Gloria?”
“You don’t understand. They’re the cookies I eat before I write a new song. The ones that free my muse.”
“Oh,” I said. “OH! Oh, my
God! Bri, are you telling me I ate pot cookies? That I’m high?”
He shrugged. “You are if you ate those cookies. Don’t worry—it’ll wear off by morning. And you’ll probably sleep really well tonight.”
Shit! I ran to the bathroom. Hung my head over the toilet and stuck two fingers down my throat. I had to get it out of me. I mean, my God, if alcohol was bad for the baby, I didn’t even want to contemplate what pot would do to it.
Brian pulled my hand away from my face. “Stop. It won’t do any good at this point. It’s already in your system. Relax, sis. Honestly, it’s no worse than the martinis and Manhattans you like—better, probably. It’s organic.”
“You don’t understand!”
He nodded. “I think I might. Is this your first time? Man, I knew Mom and Dad were more protective of you than the rest of us—being a girl and the youngest, and all—but you went to college. How can anyone get through college without—”
“What? Of course it isn’t my first time.” Technically, it was my second. I hadn’t cared for it much at the one party in college where I’d tried it, and I hadn’t ever been inclined to indulge again. But I’d been smoking it that time. And honestly? I hadn’t inhaled. (Yeah, I know. Me and Bill Clinton.) “This feels … different.”
“You ever had an edible before?”
“Well … no. But it doesn’t matter. I can’t be high right now.” I was pacing the apartment, shifting direction like a pinball every time I came up against a wall or large piece of furniture.
“Calm down. Like I said, it’s no worse than a few drinks.”
“But I’m not drinking anymore!”
“Whoa. Dude. That’s extreme. Why not?”
I stopped pacing. Tried to gather my thoughts. “I, uh, I’ve been working out with Laura. Trying to get in shape, you know, learn to defend myself. I need to take care of my body.”
There. At least I hadn’t spilled the beans to another brother. That showed presence of mind, right? Maybe I was only a teensy bit high.
