Disorderly Conduct (The Anna Albertini Files Book 1)

by Rebecca Zanetti

  Aiden grinned, shifting his weight to block me from the arriving police and bystanders gathering on the sidewalk. “Seriously. I’ve wondered. How are you?”

  “You could’ve written. Emailed. Called.” I tried to hold back another shiver as well as the hurt I had no business feeling. “I mean, if you really wanted to know.”

  “I had to leave, sweetheart. You know that.” His gaze ran over my skirt, somehow heating my legs.

  “You could’ve called.” I sounded sad, and I didn’t want that. He’d left when he had turned eighteen. His grandma had died, and he’d been a person of interest in a felony car-stealing ring. So he’d just left. “I missed you.”

  He sighed. “I was told you needed to move on without me.”

  I blinked. I’d only been twelve years old when he’d left, and I’d thought he’d created the moon. He was sweet and kind and he’d saved my life. He was my friend, and I’d followed him around like a lost puppy for two years. He’d treated me like a kid sister, and I’d liked it. “Who told you to leave me alone?” My voice shook, I was so angry.

  “Your shrink.” He lifted one very broad shoulder. “Dr. Petrolche said you were too attached and needed to heal on your own after…everything.”

  That stupid shrink. He was crazier than I’d ever been. “They arrested him for having an affair with an underage patient.” I had known he wasn’t a very good psychologist, even as a kid.

  Aidan’s dark eyebrows rose. “I hadn’t expected that.”

  Randy coughed several times. “You were in therapy? Are you crazy? You can’t prosecute me if you’re nuts.”

  “Shut up,” Aiden said mildly, looking at my legs again.

  The other man jogged back up and handed Aiden a red box. Aiden grabbed Bactine out of the box to spray my shoulder before placing a wide bandage just above my bicep. For such a giant, he had a gentle touch.

  I blinked, concentrating on his warm fingers and not the fact that I’d been shot.

  “You’ll be okay.” He gently tugged my arms back through my jacket sleeves. Or rather, Donna’s jacket sleeves. The intimacy in his helping me re-dress made my thighs tingle and my heart thump. I wasn’t feeling like his little sister any longer. The six-year age difference didn’t seem that much now. “We’ll just put this back on before you talk to the police,” he said.

  “Police?” Randy took a step back. “I think I’ll—”

  His voice squawked at the end when Aiden grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. “You’ll give a report.”

  A much gentler hand grasped my good arm and tugged me to my feet. The shield Aiden provided made me feel special in a way I wouldn’t want to describe, considering I needed to be a tough lawyer and not some fragile woman from the fifties.

  Aiden nodded to a swiftly moving man emerging from the dusty door of the police station. “That’s Detective Pierce. He’s a total dick, but you need to make a statement too, Aingeal.”

  Although the sweet nickname warmed me throughout, when I tried to settle my stance, I swayed. Shock, fear, I don’t know. I was such a wimp.

  Aiden pushed me back down to sit on the stone ledge and gestured toward the detective. “Pierce can come to you, Anna.”

  “How do you know his name?” I asked, the day taking on a surreal haze.

  “Long story.”

  Aiden seemed to have a few of those. The detective strode over, hawk-like gaze belying the casual gait. “I thought you were in jail.”

  “I got out. That happens for the good guys, Detective Pierce. This is Anna Albertini and a witness, Mr. Taylor,” Aiden said.

  Pierce was probably in his early forties with just a hint of gray at his otherwise dark blond temples. His eyes were a light green that all but sizzled with intelligence, and his lanky form nicely filled out a dark brown suit. He looked at me and then back at Aiden, and his jaw tightened hard enough that it had to hurt. “Who shot at you this time?” he snapped.

  I blinked. He was talking to Aiden. “What’s going on?” I asked.

  Aiden tilted his head to Randy. “Shooter aimed for him.”

  “Randy. Randy Taylor,” Randy said, sniffing loudly. Uniformed cops spilled around, marking off spaces, and Randy seemed to wilt.

  “What happened?” Pierce yanked out a battered notepad that looked like it had floated the river more than once and tapped a shiny Silverville Cross pen on the paper.

  “There was a pattering sound from a car, and I was tackled,” I said, my voice trembling.

  “What kind of car?” Pierce scribbled a couple of notes.

  “It was brown.” My memory was blank. Completely. I drew the sides of my ruined jacket together with shaking hands.

  Pierce lifted his head and turned toward Aiden; his gaze accusatory.

  Aiden rested a heavy hand on my shoulder, and I realized I’d swayed forward. He tightened his hold. “Brown Range Rover, 2005 model, no plates. Two men inside. Driver about forty, pocked skin, faded black leather jacket. Shooter was thin, twenties, goatee and blond wearing a jean jacket and shooting an AK-47. Crappy shot.” He tilted his head toward Randy. “The possible target.”

  Pierce scribbled some more, lifting his head to pin Randy with a hard gaze. “Who wants you dead, kid?”

  “Nobody. I mean, nobody.” Randy’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as if it too, wanted to make a run for it. “This is just a possession charge. It was just some pot, man.” He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his white shirt. “I got the drugs from my Uncle Melvin. Melvin Whitaker.”

  I gasped, my wide gaze slashing to Randy. Melvin Whitaker? The same neighbor the elderly ladies had tried to rob? Did the guy supply the whole town, or what? “Tell me more,” I said quietly.

  Randy took a step back, obviously realizing he shouldn’t be confessing to us. “Uh, sorry. Oops.”

  Pierce grinned, making him look more like an older male model than a cop. He glanced back at Randy. “How much pot?”

  “Just a joint—one tiny little joint. Misdemeanor charge.” Randy sank down next to me, running a shaking hand through his hair. The kid smelled like smoke and had quite smartly forgotten to report that he’d hit a cop. I stayed quiet for now.

  “Any chance Uncle Melvin is pissed you stole his pot?” Pierce asked.

  “No.” Randy shook his head. “It was just a joint—the guy’s like a total nerd. He wouldn’t shoot at me.”

  “Where does Uncle Melvin get his pot?” Pierce’s voice remained casual, but those eyes narrowed in like a coyote spotting dinner.

  I listened carefully. If Randy was dumb enough to talk, I wasn’t going to stop him.

  Randy shrugged. “Dunno. He works out at that seed company on the border, and his stuff is always the best.” He turned red, his gaze shifting to me. “At least, that’s what I’ve heard. I mean, this was my first joint.”

  Aiden didn’t even attempt to hide his chuckle at that.

  I struggled to unfreeze my brain.

  Pierce had to be an inch shorter than Aiden, which still made him tall. “Did you recognize the shooters?”

  “No.” Randy shook his head. “I saw the gun, and then this guy shoved me to the ground before landing on top of this lady lawyer.” He flipped his shaggy hair toward Aiden.

  I glared. “I think you mean to say thanks for saving my life.” Ugh. I sounded like a mom correcting a toddler.

  “Oh. Yeah. Thanks, man.” Randy stood. “Can I go now?”

  “No.” Pierce curled his lip. “I need a list of who’d want to kill you.”

  “Nobody, man. Really.” Randy eyed the cops swarming the grounds and taking witness statements. “If I think of anyone, I’ll call you.”

  Pierce exhaled slowly and turned his focus on Aiden. “We all know you were the target. Too bad they missed.”

  Randy’s head swung around, his mouth dropping open. “Hey—yeah. You were right in the line of fire.” He brushed dirt off his skinny jeans. “Maybe this had nothin’ to do with me, dude. It’s all about the big man in
black.”

  Aiden crossed his arms. “I can’t be sure.” His eyes darkened.

  Tension spiraled through the already hectic afternoon. Pierce’s lids half-lowered. “What are you involved in now?”

  Now? I squinted to read Aiden’s suddenly unreadable face.

  “Nothing.” Aiden peered down, his tone remaining level.

  “We’ll see.” Pierce tapped his pen again.

  Aiden’s smile held more warning than humor, and my breath caught all funny in my chest. “If I am up to something, then no doubt you’re the guy to figure it out,” he said softly.

  Red spiraled across Pierce’s sharp cheekbones. “That cocky attitude is gonna finally bring you down.” He eyed both Randy and me. “You’re all coming into the office right now for an interview.” He nodded at Aiden. “Devlin—I’m looking forward to it.”

  “I hope you’re well rested, then.” Aiden’s expression didn’t change.

  Okay. Where had Aiden been the last twelve years, and what the heck had he been doing? Besides being arrested for dealing drugs. Sure, he’d been a wild youth, but there had been a sweetness in him I’d never forgotten. And he had saved my life.

  “Five minutes. My office.” The detective hurried off to speak with a couple of uniformed officers by the door.

  Randy cleared his throat. “I, uh, have to go call my work and let them know I’ll be late. Meet you in the sheriff’s office.” Without waiting for an answer, he pivoted and made a fast exit toward the parking lot.

  “He’d better come right back,” I muttered.

  Aiden dropped into a crouch at my eye level. “Feeling better?”

  No. “Sure. Um, why does a police officer want to take you down?” I asked. Aiden just couldn’t be the bad guy. There had to be some mistake, right? He’d saved me from being shot, and he’d saved me from a fate worse than death when I was only ten years old.

  Aiden lifted one muscled shoulder. “Cops have never liked me. It’s that simple.”

  No, it wasn’t. “Aiden—”

  “Pierce is the asshole who arrested me, and we might’ve gotten in a bit of a scuffle. Not your problem.” Aiden tugged a small stick from my hair to toss to the grass. “I’m fine, though.”

  Fair enough. I tried to straighten my spine and look tough. Good manners won out. “Thanks for rolling me to the ground.”

  His eyes lit, and that amazing mouth threatened a smile. “Any time, Angel. Any time.”

  Chapter 5

  Three hours after learning that a bullet can burn, I drove away from the courthouse toward my small bungalow on a nearby lake. No way was I returning to work for the day. I was done. The police had separated Aiden, Randy, and me for the interviews. I should’ve wanted to know about Randy’s information, but truth be told, it had been Aiden who’d filled my mind.

  The questioning had been exhausting, but I really didn’t remember much other than the brown vehicle.

  Detective Pierce had been very intent that the shooter had been aiming at Aiden.

  Just where had he been the last twelve years?

  My phone buzzed in a reminder, and I looked down to see I’d missed twenty-two calls. I winced. My mom was from a big Irish family, and my dad a huge Italian family, and when they’d combined into marriage, they’d created enough family members to fill a small stadium. My folks tried to be true to both sides of my heritage, even giving all three of us girls both Italian and Irish names. For a time in my teens, I’d punch anybody who called me Annabella Fiona Albertini, but I was fine with it now.

  My phone rang, and I lifted it to my ear. “Hello.”

  “Oh my God, are you okay?” My sister, Tessa, was the first to reach me. “We just heard you’d been shot.”

  “I’m fine, Tessa Carmelina—” I said her full name to throw her off. Unlike me, she still really disliked it. “How did you hear?” Dumb question. Seriously. Even though I was in the big city, everybody knew everybody, especially if that everybody was from Silverville. “Forget it. I don’t want to know.”

  Tess exhaled. “So you weren’t shot?”

  “Not really. Just clipped.” Yeah, I kind of sounded like a badass. “But that’s not the big news.”

  Tess was quiet for a second. “Seriously? What’s the big news?”

  “Aiden Devlin is back.” I lowered my voice to a whisper even as I took a corner a bit too fast. “He’s here.”

  “Whoa. Wait a minute. He didn’t shoot you?” Tess’s voice quieted.

  I snorted. “Of course not. He may have been the target.”

  “How does he look?” Tess’s voice rose in a weird hush. As usual, she got right to the point.

  “Like Aquaman, Jared Padelecki, Angel, the Arrow, and your best wet dream combined,” I affirmed. “Seriously. The guy is like airbrushed in real life.”

  Tess breathed out. “Wow. Okay. So. What now?”

  What now? Huh. Good question. “Probably nothing. I mean, we talked, but then we were interviewed separately, and he didn’t ask for my number or anything.”

  “Did you ask for his?” Tess asked.

  “No. I was a little shaken after the whole shooting issue.” I rubbed my eyes. Should I have asked for his number? “He also sidestepped any question I asked about where he’s been and why he’s back. The cop on the scene really didn’t like him.” Not that Detective Pierce was anybody I knew or trusted. But still. “I don’t know, Tessa. A lot of stuff came up the second I saw him.” Including my libido.

  My other line rang, and I glanced at the face of my phone. “Oh. That’s mom. Gotta go.” I clicked off and answered the other line. “I’m fine, Mathair,” I said, using the Gaelic translation for ‘mother’ to calm her down.

  “You were shot. Right? Did the bullet hit an artery?” my mom asked urgently.

  If the bullet had hit an artery, I wouldn’t be on the phone. I took a deep breath. “No, no, not at all. Honest. It just scratched me. Won’t even scar.” My mom took scars as a personal affront to her mothering skills. “I’m fine.”

  “I have a call to your father. He’s down in the mine looking at that new vein. Should I get him up right now? I have the emergency number.” Stress clipped her voice.

  “No. I really am fine, Mom.” I gentled my voice. “Honest.”

  She was silent for a couple of moments, and then she exhaled. “Thank Mother Mary. That’s wonderful.” Something rustled. “I’d heard that you walked away, so I was fairly certain your arteries were spared, but a mother needs to hear confirmation.”

  I took another turn, this one away from the lake and more toward town. “I understand.”

  “So your body is all right, and now we must deal with your head.” More papers rustled.

  I sat straighter, my heart kicking back into gear. “My head is fine.”

  “You were just shot at,” she countered. “I already called. You have an appointment with Wanda Versaccio tomorrow afternoon. You know? Your fourth cousin twice removed on your Uncle Sebbachi’s side? She’s Italian, but that’s okay. We don’t have any Irish psychologists in the family. Wanda divorced a woman who was not treating her right and just opened a practice in the city. She’s taking patients.”

  No, no, no, no, no. “I don’t need a shrink, Mathair.” Sure, I’d seen a psychologist while in school to become a shrink, because it was part of the gig. But I’d left therapy in my past when I’d changed my mind and decided to become a lawyer. “I’m fine.”

  “No. You must go and, ah, work through it? Yes. That’s it. You’ll have night terrors, and maybe Wanda can help you keep them at bay.” My mother’s voice softened into the pure ability to cause guilt. “Or I can come and stay with you. You know I won’t sleep a wink if I’m worried, anyway.”

  I closed my eyes and then quickly reopened them when I remembered I was driving down the main street in town. My Italian grandmother could place a guilt trip with the precision of a sonic drill bit, but even she was no match for my mother. There was something about guilt placed w
ith the soft lilt of an Irish accent that could cut deep. “Mom.”

  “I’m texting you her office address. Go after work tomorrow, or I’ll be on your doorstep.” She clicked off.

  Two seconds later, my phone trilled with a text. I glanced down to see the map of Disneyland beneath it. Mom was still figuring out texting. I sighed. It probably wouldn’t hurt to talk things through. Sometimes current events brought the past back up, and it’d be nice not to have a bunch of panic attacks this week, especially since work was so chaotic.

  Even so, that was yet one more thing to worry about the next day.

  For today, the spring sun shone down as I drove through my quaint town and toward my much smaller lake. I pulled into my small drive and parked next to a convertible Bug and a gleaming white Escalade.

  My sisters were there.

  Surprising tears choked in my throat as I jumped out of my car and headed toward the front door, taking a couple of precious moments to compose myself as I strode past the tulips to the cottage door. The scent of fresh gnocchi hit me first as I pushed inside my cozy living room.

  Tess took one look at me from her perch on a stool and reached for a bottle of Cabernet to pour a second glass. I smiled, dropped my laptop bag near the door, and headed for comfort. “Hey.” She nudged the glass down the bar.

  I sat and reached for the glass, taking a big swallow and warming my stomach. “Hey.”

  We both faced the kitchen over the granite bar where Donna, AKA Donatella Tiffany, was stirring a red sauce in a pot. She also had a glass of wine in front of her. While she inherited our father’s Italian genes with her black hair and brown eyes, Tessa had inherited our mom’s Irish genes with her red hair and green eyes. Nobody had figured out where my coloring of light brown hair and grayish green eyes had come from. It was a family joke that we should look back at mailmen through the years.

  Donna partially turned, a purple apron covering her black business suit. “How badly were you shot?”