by Amy Vansant
Though she’d intended to try and stay angry a little longer, Charlotte couldn’t help but laugh. “When have you ever known me to keep my mouth shut and fester?”
Declan threw his arms around her as if she’d just been rescued from living on a deserted island with a volleyball as her best friend.
“Ow...my shoulder...”
He shifted his arm. “Sorry.”
She nestled between his pecs. “No biggie. Just my little ol’ gunshot wound.” Charlotte didn’t consider herself a hugger, but now that he’d maneuvered away from her wound, she had no complaints. She wrapped her arms around his waist and he squeezed a little harder.
“I was afraid you were mad,” he murmured into her hair.
“Well, I am mad, a little...”
He released her slowly and stared into her eyes. “Then let ‘er rip. Hit me with any concerns.”
She grimaced, organizing her thoughts. “I suppose I feel a little deceived because you’ve always been a little...uh...effeminate isn’t the word—”
Declan’s eyes widened. “Effeminate?”
“Poncy!” called Seamus from the back of the house.
Declan scowled. “She doesn’t need your help, Seamus.”
Charlotte’s head tilted. “Actually, poncy’s not bad...”
“I know. Okay. I’m not an ape man like some people,” Declan yelled the last five words over Charlotte’s head toward Seamus’ room.
“You’re more like the prep school-boy type,” suggested Charlotte.
“Nerd!” screamed Seamus.
“Using a napkin when I eat doesn’t make me a nerd!”
Charlotte held up her hands. “Okay, okay. I think we all get the idea.”
Declan’s nostrils were flaring as he stared in the direction Seamus had wandered. It was easier to imagine him in fatigues tromping through the jungles of Columbia when he wore that particular expression.
Charlotte put her hand on his chest and his attention returned to her. His expression softened.
“You get the idea,” she said. “You’ve always had a sort of a nice-boy feel, and then I find out you were learning martial arts and shooting guns and it makes me feel like you were lying to me on some level. Not to mention when you filled me in on your history with Stephanie, you could have mentioned you ran through the jungles of South America together.”
“You’re right. I should have told you. I was just so young and stupid then. That wasn’t me. It’s so embarrassing—”
“You’re only twenty-seven now.”
“There’s a big difference. For some of us.” His gaze shot in Seamus’s direction again. “I was in a bad place at the time. And while I enjoyed the training and the excitement of being in the field, I think it also helped me focus. It helped me realize soldiering wasn’t what I wanted to do for a living. So I left.”
“And Stephanie?”
Declan looked away. “She stayed. Let’s just say it fit her better than it fit me.”
“She shot those men at the club.”
He nodded.
“You helped her hide the gun.”
He shook his head. “I took her prints off it and tossed it back on the ground.”
“Won’t the cops think it’s weird there’s a gun with no prints?”
“When your choices are evidence and no evidence, always pick the latter. Not finding a gun would have been even stranger.”
“Mariska and the other ladies saw Stephanie with that gun.”
“Saw her with a gun. Do you think any of them can tell one from another? Plus they’ll never think to ask about it. The police think drug dealers were the problem—not lawyers and old ladies.”
Charlotte considered this. “Hopefully they won’t look too closely into Darla. She’s got a secret history like you.”
Declan chuckled.
“Why wouldn’t Stephanie take credit for killing the bad guy when he drove through the wall?”
“That gun shot the guy in the parking lot, too.”
“Right. It might be harder to explain why, when and how she shot him.”
Charlotte paced. “Stephanie doesn’t want scrutiny.”
Declan shook his head.
“Because she’s a lawyer?”
Declan nodded.
“And a killer.”
Declan stared.
“She is, isn’t she?”
Declan’s mouth hung open, as if he was unable to find the right way to start his response.
Charlotte tried again. “Okay, let me dial back a little. Let’s assume she killed people while with the Honey Badgers, like any soldier might. My question is—is she killing here?”
“Well, two, yesterday—”
“One and a half. Pirro finished off the guy in the parking lot.”
“True.”
It hadn’t been that long since Charlotte had discovered Stephanie’s mother was a notorious serial killer. Had the apple not fallen far from the tree?
“Is she a serial killer like her mother?” she asked.
Declan grimaced. “No. I—No.”
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t. I swear.”
“But it isn’t out of the realm of possibility?”
Declan took a deep breath. “I don’t know.”
Charlotte sat on the edge of the sofa. “I need to talk to Stephanie. Find out where Ryan is being held exactly.”
“That’s why I went to see her.”
“Oh? Not because the first rule of Honey Badger club is that you don’t talk about Honey Badger club?”
“No. Because I knew you needed more info about Ryan. I thought she might tell me.”
“She must have been thrilled to find out you were there to help me.”
“I told her I hoped she felt better soon, too.”
“That was sweet.”
“Thank you. She told me she saw Ryan in a back room at Irony Dry Cleaning. It was one of the investments Louis’s mother made with their ill-gotten gains. Ryan was tied to a chair. His face had been a little rearranged.”
“They were torturing him?”
“Sounded more like a standard beating.”
“Oh, like the sort of standard beating the Honey Badgers used to dole out?”
“Is everything going to come back to my quasi-military history from now on?”
Charlotte nodded. “For a while.”
“Fair enough.”
Charlotte stared through the back sliding doors at the pool.
“Whatcha thinking about?” asked Declan, sitting in the chair across from her.
“I talked to Frank this morning, hoping he’d have information for me about Ryan. He said the cops did a sweep of the dry cleaners and found nothing.”
“Hm. You think Stephanie was lying?”
“No. For once I don’t. Why would she lie about seeing an old man tied to a chair?”
“Maybe he’s important. You saw those photos on his phone. He wasn’t acting like a normal, innocent guy hanging out watching drug dealers.”
“True. I should know better to underestimate retirees. I have that phone in my purse. You just reminded me there were some voicemails on there I wanted to check.”
Charlotte stood to retrieve her purse from the kitchen table where she’d left it. Declan took her hand.
“So we’re cool?”
She nodded. “We’re cool.” Her gaze darted toward her purse. Declan noticed.
“Mostly because you just realized you have a case to work on and it’s all you can think about now?” he asked.
She grinned, squinting one eye at him. “Maybe a little.”
He chuckled and released her hand. “By all means...don’t let me stop you.”
In all the commotion following the attack on Jackie’s, she’d forgotten to finish checking Ryan’s phone for information. It was a miracle she’d remembered to plug it in again after returning from the police station.
She called up the voice mail as she walked back toward D
eclan.
“Mr. Finnegan, this is Rob from maintenance. Just wanted to let you know we’ll be up there to fix your sink on Thursday.”
“Anything?” asked Declan.
“A phone call from maintenance about his sink from two months ago.”
“That seems useful. Put it on speaker.”
She switched the phone to speaker for the next message. There was a beep and a second message played.
“Dad—it’s Craig. Craziest thing...I think I saw Firehead...”
The message ended there with what sounded like nervous laughter. Charlotte felt her jaw creaking open as she listened. She played it a second time.
“Did he say Firehead?” asked Declan.
“It’s hard to tell. It’s garbled.”
“Like he has a bad connection.”
She nodded. “The date is the same day Craig died. This could have been his last message.”
“You think he kept it for nostalgia?”
“Maybe...” Charlotte pulled her own phone from her purse and did an Internet search for Craig Finnegan death. She found a newspaper article and read through it.
“Didn’t Jackie say her disco already had the bar when she moved in? It had already been a club?”
“Yes.”
“And the building was owned by Georgette Enterprises?”
“Named after Louis’s mom.”
Charlotte held out her phone. “Guess where they found Craig Finnegan dead?”
Declan squinted at the screen. “At Jackie’s club?”
“Not far from it. He was dead in his car of an apparent overdose.”
“You think he was at that club?”
“He does sound a little giddy on the recording. Maybe he’s drunk?”
“That nervous laughter at the end kind of gave me the chills. It’s like he was afraid of Firehead and was relieved to be away from him...”
“I know what you mean—” Charlotte gasped. “Could he have meant a redhead?”
“You’re thinking the guy who shot the man in the parking lot?”
“Pirro. Has to be, right? That’s why Ryan was watching the crew on the corner. He’s trying to find Pirro. Firehead.”
Declan frowned. “And Pirro found him instead.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Gloria entered the Irony Dry Cleaners, nodding with appreciation. The building was enormous, an old one-level brick building converted into a dry cleaning mecca.
When Georgette detached her family’s finances from the drug world, she certainly hadn’t returned any of the money to the junkies and pill-heads. Now her ungrateful son owned the largest dry cleaning operation in the state.
A woman approached the counter.
“Pick up?”
“No. I’d like to see the owner.”
“He isn’t here.”
“Are you sure? Mr. Beaumont? Louis?”
The woman shook her head. “He isn’t here. Do you want to speak to Mr. Pirro?”
“Mr. Pirro?”
“He works with Mr. Louis.”
Gloria considered the offer. Her goal was to find Ryan Finnegan. Maybe Mr. Pirro could take her on a tour of the premises and they would stumble on where Louis was holding Ryan. Worse case, maybe he could tell her where Louis was lurking. “Yes. I’ll talk to Mr. Pirro.”
The woman walked to a windowed office on the right side of the building. Gloria couldn’t see anyone inside, but even over the machines she heard a man barking something. A body leaned forward and peered at her through one of the office’s windows.
He stared, and Gloria blinked, certain her eyes were playing tricks. The man had dark skin, but his hair was bright, light red.
The man left the office pushing by the woman who had gone to gather him. She scurried away, disappearing into the bowels of the building.
The man looked furious. He pounded on the counter, his gaze locked on Gloria. “You want something?”
Gloria straightened, rising to her full height of four foot eleven.
“I’m looking for Louis Beaumont.”
“He ain’t here.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No.”
“Are you Mr. Pirro?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh. Well, I’m a friend of Louis’s family. He was supposed to give me a tour of the premises today.”
Pirro’s expression suddenly changed from angry to quizzical. “Hey...do I know you?”
Gloria scowled. “I don’t think so.”
Pirro stared at her a moment longer. After a moment the tension in his posture snapped like an over-stretched rubber band and he grinned.
The man had an unfortunate face, and the effect was unnerving.
“What is it you wanted again?” asked Pirro.
Gloria wrapped her arms across her chest. “I..uh...nothing—”
“A tour. Right? I’ll give you a tour.”
Pirro pushed open the half door to allow her behind the counter and held out his hand to usher her through.
She eyed the door as if it were booby-trapped. “Are you sure? I could wait for Mr. Beaumont...”
“No trouble at all.”
Gloria bit her lip. “Okay. I did drive all the way here...”
“Sure.”
She walked through. “I need to see every room of this building.”
The man chuckled. “Sure. Dallas!”
Another face appeared in the office window, and a tall, skinny, blond young man jogged over to meet them.
“Yeah?”
“Come with us. I’m giving this lady a tour.”
Dallas scowled. “Huh?”
“Just come with us.”
The boy shrugged.
Pirro strode toward the back of the building, weaving between workers busy pressing and sorting clothing. Gloria had to break into a trot to keep up with the men.
“I guess this is the main working floor?” she asked, trying to maintain appearance as a tourist.
Neither of her guides answered. The unbearable noise probably kept them from hearing her. Hopefully, there would be some quiet areas coming soon and she could try and probe for more information on where Ryan might be.
They exited through a door into the back of the building and walked down a hall. Gloria’s ringing ears began to relax.
“How long has this place been operating?” she asked.
Pirro and Dallas remained silent.
Rude. If Louis wasn’t such a little bastard to his mother, I’d tell him to fire these two. As it is, he gets what he deserves—terrible employees.
Pirro opened a door and they walked into a small room with little more in it than two chairs, a cardboard box with a deck of cards on it and a closet.
Annoyed by the lack of communication, Gloria was about to complain when something about the chairs caught her eye. Reddish-brown spatter stained the arm of the larger wooden chair. A smattering of cut zip ties lay on the floor beneath it.
Could someone have been tied to that chair?
“This time you don’t let her go,” said Pirro poking Dallas in the center of his chest.
Gloria felt her nerves flutter. “What—”
Appearing aggrieved by the scolding tone in his boss’s voice, Dallas cut her off. “I told you, Pirro. Louis told me—”
Pirro whirled, his face contorted with rage, spittle flying from his mouth.
“I don’t care what Louis told you. Who’s in charge?”
Gloria clutched her purse to her chest and stumbled back. Her leg hit the chair and she reached back to catch herself on its back to keep from falling.
Dallas paled. “You.”
Pirro’s gaze shot to Gloria. She lowered her purse, puffing her chest as large as her fear-laden, shallow breaths would allow.
“Who do you think you are?” she asked.
He leered. “I know who you are. I saw you when I was following Ryan. You’re the woman he wore the t-shirts for.”
Gloria swallowed. “You le
t me out of here immediately.”
Pirro laughed and left with only a last nod to Dallas.
Gloria’s jaw fell. She looked at Dallas. “Young man, I don’t know what you or that man think you’re doing, but you need to let me go immediately.”
Dallas shook his head. “I’m sorry ma’am. I’m going to have to ask you to sit in that chair.”
Gloria glanced at the chair. “Is that where you tied Ryan?”
Dallas sighed.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ryan parked behind the dry cleaning and hopped out of his car.
Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and released it slowly.
Just have to stay cool a little bit longer.
Louis wasn’t the man he thought he’d be. The voicemail his boy left him the night he died had been spotty, but he was sure the man responsible for Craig’s death had red hair. Looks like Firehead. He’d told the police Firehead was a creature he’d invented as a bedtime story for his son—a shadowy creature with fire for hair—but they didn’t believe there was a connection. His death had been ruled an accidental overdose and the cops had moved on.
Only he was left to avenge his son. He’d traced ownership of the club near where they found Craig’s body to Victor Beaumont’s Georgette Enterprises.
He’d discovered that remnants of Victor’s drug empire had survived his death. He’d started watching the corners, tracing the players. No one looked like Firehead yet.
Though he hadn’t enjoyed the beating, his kidnapping had brought him to the inner sanctum.
But still no Firehead.
He had a plan now.
Louis Beaumont didn’t seem like a criminal mastermind. He might have been the boss in name, but there had to be more players. He just had to play along and hang out long enough to find Firehead.
Pumping his arms to give himself courage, Ryan strode across the dry cleaners parking lot to the front door.
The young lady at the counter winced. He’d forgotten about his mangled face. The swelling had gone down enough that he could again see through the affected eye, but he still looked like a car accident victim.
“I’m here to see Louis,” he said, smiling in the hopes he’d seem less scary.
The girl rolled her eyes.
“He’s still not here.”
“Still?”