"No! You—" Gus stabbed a finger at me. "You are getting on my nerves, little girl."
"Then we're even."
"We're only even if I'm pissing you off big-time. Because that's exactly what you are doing to me, honey. But even that… that's not keeping you from thinking about my murder."
My own words came back to haunt me. Which didn't mean I was going to let Gus have the upper hand. "How can I think about your murder when you're not telling me the whole story? You've been holding out on me, Gus, and that's not fair. And it's not going to do you any good, either. If you want this thing solved, you're going to have to help me out. I'm not exactly Columbo."
Gus's eyes lit. "I always liked that guy. He still on TV?"
I didn't explain about cable or syndication. What good would it have done me? Besides, as we got to the top of a sloping rise crowned with a series of free-standing statues depicting the twelve apostles, I saw the tour bus across the winding road. Now that I'd wasted all this time talking to Gus, I knew I'd better get over there before the crowd got antsy.
"The point is, I'm not a detective," I told Gus, sidestepping a standing headstone that was as tall as me. "I can't investigate because I don't know how to investigate."
"You start at the beginning."
My sigh rippled the spring air. "I thought we already did. You'll excuse the pun but as far as I can see, we're at a dead end."
Rather than admit that I was right, Gus made a face. "What happened, it had to have something to do with me, with my past."
"No shit, Sherlock. You want to come up with any other lame theories?"
He was good at ignoring sarcasm. Or maybe my sarcasm just wasn't that good. "What I'm telling you is that you should start with me. With everything that ever happened to me."
"You're not going to tell me your life story, are you?" The prospect didn't cheer me. I took off walking again, making my way toward where I saw Bill craning his neck, hoping for a glimpse of me. I had already taken stock of the lay of the land and I knew there was nothing between me and the street but a strip of grass. I turned back to Gus but I kept on walking. "Just thinking about it gives me the willies," I told him. "Hour after hour of you telling me how you weren't a criminal. No, thanks."
"There is the police museum down at the Justice Center."
I pursed my lips, considering the suggestion. "They've got documentation?"
Gus puffed out his chest. "I hear they've got a whole display. All about me."
It was a good idea. I wasn't about to let him know it.
"Whatever," I told him instead. I felt the ground beneath my feet change from springy lawn to street and knew I was almost all the way over to where my group was waiting. "We'll talk about it after—"
After that, I'm not exactly sure what happened.
I heard Gus scream my name. At the same time, I felt a weird sort of tingle. Like an icy hand had gone right through me.
It was enough to make me snap to attention and when I did, I saw a funeral procession led by a big black hearse. It was just a couple feet away. Coming right at me.
I jumped back onto the lawn just as the hearse zoomed past. Gus was standing by my side.
I pressed a hand to my heart, hoping to stop it racing. "Thank you."
He waved away my words as if they were nothing. "Nothing to thank me for."
"If you hadn't warned me those cars were there—" Reality hit like I hear it always does after that kind of near-death experience. My eyes filled with tears and I dashed them away with the back of one hand. I was still shivering with that funny sort of icy cold, and when I saw Gus pull his arm back to his side, I knew why. "You tried to grab me. And your hand went right through me, just like it went through the magazines on my desk. And now I feel… "
I hugged my arms around myself, hoping to get rid of the chill that went all the way through to my bones.
"You all right, kid?"
I glanced over to find Gus watching me carefully. "I'm fine." I was, thanks to—
"You warned me, Gus. You saved my life."
He glanced away. "Big deal."
"It's a very big deal. I could have been hit. Or killed. I could have traded in my employee ID card for a headstone."
"Nah!" He stuffed his hands into his pockets and maybe it was a trick of the spring sunshine. I could have sworn I saw him blush.
That's when the truth hit me and a sudden warm flush melted the ice in my veins. I grinned.
"You know what, Gus? You're full of it."
"Full of—"
"You love the big, bad mob boss image. But something tells me that deep down inside, you're a pretty nice guy."
His eyes lit, but that didn't erase the sting of his words as he walked away. "What are you, some kind of jamoke? Don't fool yourself, sweetheart. I didn't save you because I care. I saved you because you're the only one who can help me."
Chapter 6
Three days later, I was still frozen to the bone.
Always an optimist, I did my best to look on the bright side. The spine-tingling cold was a result of Gus trying to grab me, but as weird (not to mention disturbing) as it was to think of his hand going right through me, the resulting chill had its advantages. Even though the spring day was warm and heading for the humid side, I bundled up. I pulled out the pink Abercrombie sweater I'd stashed away with my winter clothes and paired it with coffee-colored pants and brown heels that added a full two inches to my height. My hair was down around my shoulders in a tumble of curls.
I looked good, and it was a good thing I did. I needed every advantage I could get when I arrived at the Justice Center.
"Closed?" In case I hadn't read the sign right the first time, I checked it out again, looking over my shoulder toward the door of the Cleveland Police Historical Society Museum, just a couple feet inside the lobby and to the right of the main doors. "What do they mean, closed?"
The guy sitting behind the security desk wore a plastic badge that said his name was Frank. He was middle-aged and heavyset. Frank had a phone book open on the counter in front of him and he was running a finger down a long column of names. He barely gave me a glance. "That's what the sign says, lady. And that's what it means. It's Saturday. The museum is always closed on Saturday."
"But I didn't know that."
Frank answered with an unconcerned shrug.
"But I came all the way down here and paid four bucks to park."
He yawned.
"But it's my only day off and—"
I was getting nowhere, and I gave up with a sigh. Fortunately, Frank was at the end of a column and looked up at just the right moment. The gleam that brightened his dark eyes told me that sighing did great things for my sweater. He stood, the better to give me a not-so-subtle once-over. It was especially easy for him to get a good look at my boobs since I was a full five inches taller than him.
"I might have seen one of the cops go in there a little while ago," Frank said. "I could check."
I leaned forward just a bit. "I'd be grateful."
"Phone number grateful?"
"Can I get inside the museum?"
He hurried over to find out.
When he returned a couple minutes later, Frank had a piece of paper in one hand. Call me shallow. Or maybe I'd been hanging around with Gus too long and was starting my slide toward the Dark Side. When he handed me a Bic, I didn't hesitate to write down a phony name and number. Right before I told Frank to give me a call and scampered toward the museum.
The door was still closed, but when I gave it a push, it swung open.
"Hello?" I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. "Anybody here?"
There was no answer. Not that I cared. Once I was in, I had a perfect chance to look around, and I took it.
It didn't take long. The museum was one big nondescript room painted institutional white. It had a high ceiling and a tile floor, scuffed squares of blue and white. On my left was a cubbyhole that featured a display of illegal drugs. In front o
f me was a glass case full of old police uniforms. I hurried past both. A motorcycle took up one wall, a jail cell filled another. According to the sign above it, it had been lifted whole from an old police station. The graffiti on the walls inside the cell was testimony to that. A crash course in ballistics—complete with guns and bullets—was featured in an exhibit case in the center of the room. Along the wall to my right…
I gave the black-and-white photos displayed there a quick look and grinned as if I'd found treasure.
With any luck, I had.
One of the photos was familiar, the picture of Gus lying facedown in the middle of Mayfield Road
. Augustino Scarpetti, the sign above the display said. The Life and Times of Cleveland's Most Notorious Mob Boss.
My heart beat double time and before I could remind myself that there was probably nothing there that I didn't already know and that what I already knew didn't shed any light on Gus's murder, I zipped over and took a look at the rest of the photos displayed on the board. One showed Gus at his First Communion, fresh-faced and angelic. In another, he was older, but not much. He was standing against a wall, holding a sign in front of his chest that had his name written on it along with a bunch of numbers. His first arrest, and he didn't even look scared.
I refused to get suckered in by the whole emotional quagmire that had swamped me as I stood outside Mangia Mania. Who cared how Gus had turned from choir-boy cute to a life of crime? Maybe he was just bad, and maybe bad was the reason he'd ended his days bleeding out into the gutters of Little Italy. Or maybe the real reason, as Gus had suggested, could be found there in the photographs and memorabilia that—except for his pain-in-the-ass ectoplasm—were all that was left of his life.
There was only one way to find out. I'd brought a notepad with me, and I pulled it out of my purse and fished around for a pen, ready to get to work.
"You don't look like a history buff."
What with Gus materializing at the drop of a hat, you'd think I'd be used to people sneaking up on me by now. I wasn't. At the sound of the voice right behind me, I gasped and whirled around.
Whoever I expected to find, it wasn't a drop-dead gorgeous guy in black pants and a cashmere sweater that fit a chest as solid as if it had been chipped from granite. He had a lean and stubborn chin and hair that was as inky as his sweater. It had enough of a wave to make me itch to run my fingers through it.
In between the chin and the hair was a face that would tempt an angel to mortal sin.
"Sorry." He went through the motions, but he didn't look sorry and I knew why. Like hunks always did, this hunk figured he owned the world and was entitled to do whatever he wanted. No apologies necessary. "I didn't mean to startle you. I thought Frank told you there was somebody here."
"Frank told me—" Was that my voice? The one that sounded as if I was trying to zip myself into jeans that were two sizes too small?
I told myself to get a grip. Guys—even ones as gorgeous as this—had never gotten the upper hand with me. Just so he'd know it, I stepped back and gave this gorgeous guy a long, leisurely look. "Frank said there was a cop in here. No way you're a cop."
He looked me over, too, and when he was done, his dark brows inched up. His voice was as hot as sin. "You want to see my badge?"
Oh yeah, I wanted to see his badge, all right. Along with the rest of him. But I knew it was bad form to admit it. At least this early in the game.
"Cops are old and gray," I told him, wrinkling my nose so he'd understand right off the bat that "old and gray" wasn't something I was interested in. "They're overweight from eating too many donuts and crabby from all that sugar."
"Hey, we've all got to start somewhere."
"Cops wear uniforms."
"Not when they're in the Detective Bureau."
"Cops don't work in museums."
"You got me there." He kept his tone light and his words casual, but he winced, and that made me think that working in a museum was not something he was proud of. "Cops don't work in museums. Which is why I'm not working. I'm volunteering."
"Out of the kindness of your heart?"
"Kindness my ass." His eyes sparkled even though his expression didn't. "I've got a lieutenant who's got a soft spot for this place."
"And you're trying to get on his good side."
"Her good side, and believe me, it isn't easy." He stuck out his right hand. "Quinn Harrison."
"Pepper Martin." We shook hands. His was large and well shaped. He had long fingers and a firm grip. And if he noticed that at the contact, my hand started trembling just the slightest bit? At least he didn't point it out.
Just like I didn't point out the obvious fact that he was staring at my chest.
There was no use wasting an appreciative audience. I pulled back my shoulders and Quinn grinned his approval.
"So… " He rocked back on his heels. "You come here often?"
"That's a lousy pick-up line. Even in a bar."
"Then it's a good thing we're not in a bar."
"And if you really are a detective like you claim to be, you'd realize that if I came here often, I'd know the museum isn't open on Saturdays."
"But I only come in on Saturdays. That means if you came here often and you knew the museum was closed on Saturdays, we never would have had a chance to meet and then you wouldn't be about to give me your phone number."
"The same one I gave Frank at the security desk?"
Quinn laughed. It was a deep, rich sound, and it sent a little tremor up my spine and across my shoulders. Like champagne bubbles.
"Frank's a moron," he said. "He's sitting out there as happy as a clam, thinking about how he's going to romance you with a shot and a beer and. get you in the sack right after. It will take him forever and a day before he figures out he's been conned. I, on the other hand, can smell a dodge a mile away. Just so you know… " His smile inched up a bit. Dazzling enough to blind even a levelheaded woman.
And no one had ever accused me of being levelheaded.
Quinn moved in close enough for me to smell his aftershave. It was Flavio, the same fragrance Joel always wore.
I tried not to hold it against him.
"Just so you know what a good judge of character I am, I can tell that a shot and a beer isn't your style," he said and Flavio notwithstanding, Quinn's voice, deep and resonant, made me forget that Joel Panhorst had ever existed. "So I'm thinking Pietro's. You know, that new place in the Warehouse District. I hear they've got a reservation list a mile long but… well… " Just like he didn't do apologies, he didn't do modest, either. He tried for sheepish and only ended up looking hotter than ever. "I've got a few connections. I'm pretty sure we could get a window table some night soon. So what do you think? Candlelight. Wine. White tablecloths and flowers. And did I mention the candlelight?"
He did, and just thinking about studying the planes and ridges of Quinn's face in the light of a flickering candle made me weak in the knees.
I stayed strong. "I'll check my social calendar," I told him.
Quinn chuckled. "Don't check. Just say yes."
"Yes."
Okay, so I crumbled. Who could blame me? As hunks went, this one was on top of the food chain. Plus he hadn't said one word about my brain.
What woman could resist?
"So tell me, Pepper Martin, what brings you to our little depository of things nobody cares about?"
"One of the things nobody cares about." I pointed to the pictures of Gus. "Him."
Quinn pursed his lips, considering. "Scarpetti? I've heard stories about him around the station. Some of the older cops remember him."
"And what do they say about—" I sounded too anxious, and I knew it. I reined myself in and tried for the cool composure that always worked better than too fast, too hot, and too heavy.
Except in the bedroom.
"I work at the cemetery where Scarpetti is buried. I give the tours and the more I can find out about our residents—"
This time when Qui
nn's eyebrows slid up, it was in surprise. "Residents?"
Heat shot through my cheeks. "I've been hanging around Ella too long. She's my boss. That's what she calls them. Anyway, the more I know, the more I can tell our visitors. I heard there was an exhibit here about Gus… er… Scarpetti. I thought if I stopped down, I might be able to find out some things that other people don't know."
Quinn scraped a hand through his hair. One strand refused to be corralled, and it hung over his forehead like an inky question mark. It took more self-control than I knew I had not to reach up and smooth it into place. "Can't help you there," he said, and he sounded honestly disappointed. "From what I've heard, Scarpetti was an ornery son of a bitch and my buddies over in Organized Crime say his son has continued the family tradition in grand style. But personally, I don't know anything about these old mobbed-up types. I have heard Larry, the collections manager, say he's got a stash of stuff about Scarpetti in the storage room. He claims that if the museum ever gets enough funding for more space, he could double the size of this display."
I didn't care much about the museum doubling in size. Not as much as I did about that one word: stash.
Though I suspected he encountered it so much he was immune, I batted my eyelashes at Quinn. "I don't suppose you'd consider—"
"Maybe if you ask really nice."
He was taller than me—always a big plus—and I scooted close enough so that I had to look up into his eyes. They were as green as spring oak leaves, shot through with a color that reminded me of amber. When I asked really nice, it wasn't hard to sound head over heels. Heck, I already was.
"Please."
I knew he'd cave. Guys always did. "Let me lock the door so Frank doesn't send any more pretty women in here," Quinn said and he did just that. "The storage room is out the back door of the museum and down the hall and I think I know where Larry keeps the key."
On his way from the front door, he grabbed my hand and tugged me along with him.
Suddenly, I wasn't so cold anymore.
It's not easy to own up to my weaknesses. But hey, I've already admitted that I talk to a dead guy. I shouldn't be embarrassed (at least not too much) to confess that I know exactly what would have happened with Quinn in that cramped storage room if we hadn't found two middle-aged volunteers in there sorting through mountains of stuff. Damn it.
Don of the Dead Page 7