by L C Hayden
Carol driving across the country by herself. He went back to lying on his left side.
Mr. Steel. The pimp. Bronson rolled to his back.
Lorraine’s mansion, huge but void of any personal touches, as if she hadn’t really lived there. Bronson rolled on his side, again. He wished he could find a comfortable position.
The baby. Oh God, the baby. His nephew. Niece? Lorraine’s child. How could a mother give up her own baby? Or did this child even exist?
Bronson sat up, his body drenched with sweat. The alarm clock’s digital numbers read 5:16. The sun hadn’t even made its presence known, but still he’d get up. He dragged himself out of bed and headed for the computer.
Two hours later, Bronson continued to pound on the keys. He half-jumped when someone placed his hand on his shoulder.
“Sorry I startled you,” Mike said. “I’ve been calling your name, but you were too focused to hear me. What gives?”
“I Googled Larry S. Miller.”
“Who’s that?”
“A local artist. I found his business card buried between my sister’s music sheets.”
Mike headed for the kitchen. “He must be somebody really interesting to make you forget your morning coffee.”
Bronson’s eyebrows shot up as he glanced at the empty space normally occupied by the cup of coffee. “Guess I got too busy.”
Mike opened the cabinet door and retrieved two cups. “What makes this guy so fascinating?”
“Lorraine’s painting is missing, and I found an artist’s card hidden in my sister’s sheets of music. His website’s motto is ‘You Want It Painted, I Will Paint It.’ I think I need to pay him a visit.”
The room filled with the tempting aroma of coffee. Mike poured two cups. “I tend to agree with you. The missing painting and the artist’s card call for a visit.”
Bronson nodded and remained quiet.
Mike folded his arms, leaned against the door frame, and waited for Bronson to finish.
“That’s not all I Googled.”
Mike returned to the kitchen and picked up the sugar bowl, a spoon, and the cup of coffee already light with milk. He handed them to Bronson. “Tell me about it.”
Bronson lowered his head and let out a long breath. “I’m checking on my nephew or my niece. Lorraine’s kid.”
“And?”
“I checked for a Bronson baby born in the last twenty to ten years to a Lorraine Bronson. No matches. I also checked death certificates. I began with Pittsburgh and gradually increased the search area. I’m all out of options and I’m empty handed.” Bronson poured the sugar in his coffee and stirred.
“Birth and death certificates could bear the father’s last name.”
“I know.” Bronson shut down the computer. “Mr. Steel heavily hinted that Mario Serafin may have been the father.”
“Serafin?”
“The pimp’s right-hand man.”
Mike cocked his head as though trying to remember. “Oh, the waiter, you mean, the one at Devono’s Steakhouse?”
“That’s the one, except the waiter part is a cover. He’s really Devono’s personal guard. Do you remember anything unusual about him?”
“Can’t say I do. He seemed like an ordinary, but darn good, waiter.”
“I’ll pay him a visit.”
“Want me to tag along?”
“No need. I know in the afternoon you’re visiting the boys’ school again, but your morning is free.”
“Uh oh.” Mike set his cup of coffee in the sink. “Why do I have a feeling that my morning schedule just got full?”
“If you can tear yourself away from Ellen, I thought maybe you could pay Mr. Steel’s lawyer a visit. I wrote his name in my pocket notebook and that’s in the bedroom. I’ll get you the information in a few minutes.”
“Okay, but tell me again why I want to visit this lawyer.”
“Mr. Wellington, alias Mr. Steel, says that he took Lorraine out to eat and they bumped into the lawyer. When Wellington introduced them, he felt like Lorraine already knew him although neither of them ever mentioned the incident again. I thought maybe you could go see if he knows anything about the baby, and while you’re there, you might as well check to see if Lorraine left a will.”
“I can do that, but I don’t know if it’ll do any good. First thing the lawyer is going to do is quote me the lawyer-client-confidentiality clause. But maybe under the circumstances, he’ll be willing to talk. Ellen is pretty good at getting people to reveal information. Think I’ll take her with me. We can have lunch somewhere before it’s time to visit the boys’ school.” He headed toward Ellen’s bedroom, let himself in, and closed the door behind him.
Bronson remained in the den, drinking his coffee. The baby. How old was this child now? Where was this kid? Oh, Lorraine. I should have been here for you.
Don’t leave me.
Chapter 20
As far as Mario Serafin was concerned, the only disadvantage to living outside Pittsburgh’s city limits was the long drive he had to make every day, especially on days like today. Already past eleven at night and Mario was barely pulling into his driveway. He looked forward to a fast shower and flopping down on the bed. He felt tired, and he would sleep well tonight.
All that changed as soon as he opened the door. A tingling sensation began at the base of the neck and worked its way down his spine. Beware, it said.
He pulled his gun and stepped in.
He checked the living room.
Nothing.
The kitchen and laundry room.
Same results.
The bedrooms and bathrooms came next.
He put the gun away. He had felt so sure something had changed, a detail he hadn’t noticed but would change his life forever.
*****
Only three minutes past eight in the morning and someone banged on his front door. Mario trotted toward the large living room window, drew the curtains open, and saw Bronson. What the hell?
He opened the door. “What do you want?”
“I need to talk to you. Can I come in?”
Mario frowned. He hadn’t slept well and his disposition was on the short fuse mode. “You’re here. You might as well come in.” He moved to the side allowing Bronson to step in. “How the hell did you know where I live?”
“I talked to Devono earlier today. He gave me your address.”
Mario’s lips trembled as he bit his tongue. Devono had no right to give his address to anyone. It wasn’t like him to do so. Why was Bronson the exception? No matter. Soon as Bronson walked out, he’d let his boss know exactly how he felt. “You had to have given Devono some information in exchange for my address.”
“I did.” Bronson sat down even though he hadn’t been asked to.
Mario waited for Bronson to continue but when he didn’t, Mario opened his hands and said, “And what was that?” He flopped down on the couch facing Bronson.
“I told him what I had found out about you and Lorraine and the baby.”
Mario stopped breathing. He forced his breaths to come at even intervals. “What baby?”
“Don’t play me the fool.”
Mario leaned back on the recliner. “I’m not saying I know anything about a baby. I’m curious, that’s all. What have you heard?”
“I know Lorraine was pregnant and you and my sister took off. When she came back, she was no longer pregnant and there was no baby.”
Mario bolted to his feet. “What are you trying to insinuate? That I got rid of the kid? I had nothing to do with that. Lorraine was the one who—” A movement outside his window caught his eye. He looked again, but no one was there. Probably just the large elder tree’s shadow moving in the wind.
“You were sayin’?”
Mario’s gaze drifted back to Bronson. “What?”
“You said ‘Lorraine was the one who.’ Then you stopped. Who, what?” Bronson’s eyes narrowed. “Are you the baby’s father?”
Mario had a split secon
d to glance at Bronson before a shot rang out. The bullet traveled through the window, and lead fragments and broken glass lodged themselves in Mario’s brain.
He tumbled down, dead before he hit the ground.
Chapter 21
Earlier that day, Devono hung up the phone with a slam. Bronson had verified what he always feared. Mario was Lorraine’s baby’s father. The news shouldn’t have come as a shock. After all, deep down he had known, but he hadn’t wanted to believe it. When the suspicions surfaced, he’d pushed them aside.
Mario wouldn’t betray him.
Mario knew how he felt.
Mario would be faithful.
Devono slammed his fist on the desk. Drops of his morning coffee jumped out of the cup. Devono grabbed a tissue and using broad, jerky movements, he wiped at the mess.
Such betrayals called for a harsh punishment. His men needed to learn this lesson. No matter who was involved, Devono wouldn’t tolerate such actions. Mario, his favorite, wouldn’t be the exception. No one would be. That’s the message his men would receive.
Devono lowered his head and rubbed his eyes. His hand lingered above the phone handle. He clenched his fist, picked up the phone, and made the call.
*****
Light bars pulsed, flashing through Mario’s living room window. Pieces of shards of glass lay scattered on the floor. Radios squawked and troopers moved around the house, each with his own task.
Bronson had seen this same scene hundreds of times before, but this one unnerved him. Too soon after Lorraine’s death.
Bronson shook himself and forced himself to remain calm, help Cannady any way he could.
Cannady finished talking to Hunsicker. He nodded and headed out the door. She turned to Bronson. “That about wraps it up. You’re sure you didn’t see anything? Is there something else you’d like to tell us?”
Bronson shook his head. “I wish I had seen something. I ran outside hopin’ to catch the sniper. No such luck.”
“What were you thinking? You ran out with no gun?”
Instinct had taken over. He hadn’t thought through what he would do once outside. “This thing with my sister. It’s taken a toll on me. I’m not thinking straight.”
“Ivy!”
Cannady looked toward the bedroom where Swanson had called her. “Yeah?” She spoke over her shoulder.
“You’ve got to see what I found.”
Bronson and Cannady exchanged looks and both headed toward the bedroom.
“Under the bed,” Swanson said. “More like under the springs.”
Cannady got on her knees and looked. “Well, I’ll be.”
“What?” Bronson asked.
“There’s a rifle under there.”
Bronson stood perfectly still. “A rifle?” A rifle had ended his sister’s life.
Cannady stood up. “I didn’t tell you, but Swanson found the ejected cartridge at the scene of the crime. We’ll test for a match.”
“Will you notify me, either way?”
Cannady nodded. “I’ll need a formal statement from you, again.”
“I’ll drop by the station.” He started to walk away.
“One more thing.”
Bronson stopped and turned.
“This is the second time we have to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Meet under circumstances like these. Try not to make it a habit.”
“I’ll try, but there’s no guarantees.”
Cannady’s lips formed a shape of a smile. “Get out of here.”
Chapter 22
Bronson had wanted to pay the “I Will Paint Anything” artist a visit today, but it was already late in the afternoon. He knew Ellen had prepared pot roast—her specialty—for dinner. She was gracious enough to allow him to stay with her. After all of her hard work in the kitchen, he wasn’t about to let her down by not showing up.
Bronson drove at a steady sixty-miles an hour, the speed limit, and figured that at that speed, he would be getting to Ellen’s around four. That would give him plenty of time to relax before Ellen served dinner. Minutes later, he spotted his exit ramp. He was closer to Ellen’s than he thought. He followed the beige Ford Ranger down the exit ramp. Three cars behind him also took the same exit.
Trivia. Why did he always fill his mind with such trivia? He knew exactly why. He didn’t want to think about Mario Serafin’s death. Had he caused it by telling Devono that Serafin might be Lorraine’s baby’s father? Cannady said she would follow up on that, but both she and Bronson knew that would lead them nowhere. Devono would know how to cover his tracks.
The Ranger in front of him slowed down, forcing Bronson to step on the brake. Good thing he wasn’t speeding. Otherwise, he would have rear-ended him.
The rifle. Why had Serafin hid the rifle under the bed? Would Cannady be able to prove that was the rifle used to kill his sister? Bronson grasped the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles turned red.
If Serafin was the killer, Bronson regretted that he never got the chance to punch him.
The Ranger in front of him slowed down even more, now going too slow for Bronson’s comfort. He checked the side mirror. A white Focus on the left hung back just enough not to allow Bronson to change lanes.
Bronson thought about honking, but what good would that do? An off-green Altima behind Bronson pulled in to Bronson’s right, creating its own lane. Bronson cursed the driver’s stupidity. He slowed down, wanting to give the Altima the opportunity to get in front of him.
Instead, the Altima to his right and the Focus to his left increased their speed so that all three cars were lined up and all doing the same speed. Bronson glanced at the rear-view mirror. A red Civic tailgated him, preventing Bronson from backing up or slowing down.
A trap. A beautifully, carefully executed trap and Bronson had fallen for it. The Ranger stopped, forcing Bronson to do the same. The cars beside him, as well as the one behind him, followed suit.
Bronson visually inventoried the car but failed to find anything that could help him. He picked up the cell and called Cannady. The Altima driver raised a gun and pointed it at Bronson. He signaled for Bronson to put the phone down.
Bronson lowered the cell, but didn’t disconnect. Without bending down, he used one foot to kick the boot off the other, ready to use it as a weapon.
Bronson watched as the Ranger’s door opened and a man he’d never seen stepped out of the truck and headed his way.
Chapter 23
As soon as Mike stepped inside the house, the aroma of a freshly cooked meal greeted his nostrils. When Ellen set her mind to it, she could create one heck of a good meal. Mike headed for the kitchen where he found Ellen chopping an apple. He wrapped his arms around her waist. “How’s my favorite gal?”
She smiled. “Glad you’re home.”
“Why? Because you want me to help you with dinner?”
Ellen’s smile widened. “Hm, that’s not a bad idea.” She handed him some bananas. “Cut these for me, please? I’m making a fruit salad.”
Mike nodded, washed his hands, took out a plate, and got to work. “Did you know that the Daniel Jenkins School for Boys is no longer just for troubled boys?”
“I did, but tell me about it.”
“Seems the school holds such high standards that influential folks are enrolling their kids there. Guess who their number one celebrity kid is?”
Ellen swept the apple slices into the salad bowl. “I’m not at all familiar with any of the celebrity kids so you’ve got me on that one.”
“Congressman Daniel Jenkins’ own kid. He’s a big shot in the school. Lorraine was under orders to pay special attention to him and his buddies.”
“That figures. The ultra rich always get the special attention. Everyone should get equal treatment.”
“You’re as right as right can be.” Mike leaned over and gave her a kiss. “That’s for being so thoughtful.”
“If I get a kiss for being thoughtful, I can be a lot more t
houghtful than that.”
“Sweetheart, I’ll kiss you any time. All you’ve got to do is choose me.”
Ellen’s gaze slipped away from Mike. She mixed the salad ingredients. “What’s the congressman’s kid like?”
Mike frowned and took a deep breath. “Don’t know. Didn’t get to talk to him. Seems he and all the other kids took the news very hard and were in no condition to talk.”
*****
The men in the three cars surrounding Bronson stood outside their cars. The Altima driver had put away his gun but Bronson had no doubts that the other hoods, like the Altima driver, carried.
Bronson memorized the Ranger’s license plate. Barely moving his lips, he said, “License plate of beige Ranger CLQ 478, Pennsylvania plate. Man approaching: average height, black hair with Army-style cut, light completion. About 150 pounds. Wearing jeans, blue pullover shirt.” Bronson hoped the troopers at the other end of the cell could hear him. He gave the location. “I’m at the Whittle Exit off the highway. Need help.”
The man stood in front of Bronson’s car for a fraction of a second before heading toward the driver’s side.
Bronson lowered his hands and without bending down, reached for his boot.
“You know you can’t escape,” the man said once he stood by Bronson’s side of the car. “Lower your window. I don’t want to scream.”
“I’ll have to turn on the engine to do that.”
The man nodded.
Bronson turned the key and pushed the button down. He lowered the window two inches down and stopped.
The man leaned down and spoke through the partially opened window. “Mandy Wellington sent us as your friendly painting committee. We’ve here to remind you that your twenty-four hours to hand us that painting is past. Where is it?”
“Ran into some unexpected trouble. I haven’t had time to locate it.”
“That’s a flimsy excuse, Mr. Bronson. But due to our generosity, we’ll give you twelve more hours. Then we’ll come back. If you don’t have the painting by then, we won’t be as nice next time we meet.”
