Don of the Dead

by Casey Daniels

  I was being followed.

  Reality sank in and my brain froze. I forgot all the good advice I'd read over the years in countless articles about what women should do to protect themselves in situations just like this. I never considered stopping at a police station. I didn't think about a fire station or a busy convenience store, either. All I could think was that I had to put as much distance as I could between me and the car behind me.

  I sped up.

  So did he.

  We had been on the road nearly a half hour and then the countryside melted into plain ol' suburbia. Strip malls, gas stations, restaurants.

  Did I think to stop at any of them?

  I wasn't thinking anything at all. Anything except getting away from the car on my tail.

  At the next intersection, the light was already changing when I barreled through. Yeah, it was dumb. But my timing was right. There was a pickup truck coming the other way and the car behind me had no choice but to stop. I raced on ahead and took the next corner on two wheels.

  Another street, another turn. A fork in the road and I headed to the right. A couple hundred feet in front of me, there was a drive and a sign that said Home of the Invaders, an entrance to a school. I cut my lights and turned in, heading straight to the back of the two-story brick building. I tucked my car between the back door and a dumpster.

  And I waited.

  How long? I can't say. I only know that I sat and listened to my blood pump in my veins and my pulse pound inside my head. It wasn't until the pumping slowed and the pulsing settled that I was dead certain no one knew I was there. That's when I headed home.

  I parked in the spot in back of my apartment building that I paid an extra sixty bucks a month to reserve, and even though I was confident that the crisis was over, I wasn't about to take any chances. Finally, some crumb of what I'd read in all those self-defense articles rose to the surface. I yanked the keys from the ignition and poked them up between my fingers in case I needed to use them as a weapon. It wouldn't do much in the shock-and-awe category, but at least the feel of cold metal in my hot hand deluded me into thinking I had some control over my own destiny.

  As prepared as I would ever be, I scrambled from the car into my building.

  I took the steps two at a time all the way to the third floor and when I got to the landing, I didn't stop. I raced down the hallway and unlocked my door with shaking hands. Inside, I locked the door behind me and stood with my back against it, fighting for breath.

  I was safe.

  The tension drained out of me like the fat off Oprah. I didn't even realize my knees were quaking until they decided not to hold me. I collapsed on the couch. My bedroom window faced the side of the duplex next door, but both my living room windows looked out onto the street. Exhausted and overwhelmed, I stared at the streetlight directly across the way.

  That's when I noticed a movement out in the street.

  "Cat," I told myself. "Stray dog. Someone out for a jog."

  But of course, it wasn't.

  I inched closer to the window just in time to see a late-model black sedan cruise by nice and slow.

  Did I say I was smart?

  I was smart, all right. Smart enough to lead whoever was driving that car right back to my home sweet home.

  The first person I ran into at the office the next morning was Ella. More precisely, Ella ran into me. The way her eyes sparkled with excitement, I knew there was nothing accidental about our meeting.

  Ella's tie-dyed skirt rippled against her ankles. Her beaded earrings twitched. Sometime between that morning and the last time I'd seen her (which . as far as I could remember was late in the afternoon of the day before), she'd had her hair highlighted. Spikes of gold—moussed, gelled, and sprayed into submission—rose like sunny rays from her nut-brown hair and framed her chubby face.

  She darted into the hallway long enough to grab me and drag me into her office. "Why didn't you tell me?" Ella could barely stand still. Her flat-soled, round-toed Earth Shoes danced a little pattern against the beige industrial-strength carpet. "You've got a secret this delicious and you don't even think about sharing it? Shame on you, Pepper! Two guys, and you never told me about either one of them."

  I had been up most of the night, listening to every creak in an old apartment building full of clanging pipes and groaning floorboards. I wasn't at my best.

  I blinked at her in bleary-eyed surprise. Was everyone—living and dead—poking their collective noses in my love life?

  "How—?" I untangled myself from Ella's maternal grasp. "Dan and Quinn? How do you—?"

  She leaned in close. Like she was sharing a secret. She winked. "Waiting in your office."

  "Both of them?" The prospect of Quinn and Dan in the same room together terrified me. I'm not sure why. It wasn't exactly like I needed to keep my relationship with Dan a secret from Quinn. Or my relationship with Quinn a secret from Dan. So far, I didn't have a relationship. With either one of them. The way things were going, it looked like I never would.

  I made a move toward the door and actually might have made it that far if Ella hadn't taken hold of me again. "How long has this been going on?" she asked.

  I shrugged off the question and her hand. "Oh, you know… " I said, and I hightailed it out of there.

  My office door was closed and outside it, I pulled myself together. The good news was that in spite of my restless night and an imagination that bounced between the guys in the black car were from the Prize Patrol to the guys in the black car had bags of cement in the trunk, I hadn't just dragged on the first thing I found that morning. I was wearing black pants, a sweet little butter-yellow cami, and a black jacket.

  Dan wouldn't notice.

  Quinn would.

  I took a deep breath and shifted my leather portfolio from one hand to the other, subconsciously registering the fact that a portfolio made me look professional and confident.

  Quinn wouldn't care.

  Dan would.

  Right and left brain satisfied, I pushed open the door.

  In black cashmere, Quinn Harrison looked like sin incarnate. In a charcoal suit, a crisp white shirt, and a silk tie in shades of teal that brought out the blue flecks in his eyes, sin wore the skin of an angel.

  My heart skipped a beat.

  Right before my gaze darted around the room.

  In spite of what Ella said, Dan was nowhere to be seen. And believe me, in an office that small, if he was there, I would have seen him.

  "Hi." Quinn was thumbing through the stack of papers on my desk and damn it, he didn't even look guilty about it. He gave me a quick but thorough once-over and a barely perceptible nod of approval. "You looking for someone?" he asked.

  "No." Before I closed it, I checked behind the door, just in case Dan was back there somewhere. "Ella said there was someone here to see me."

  "That would be me."

  "And you look… " I was going to say "hot enough to set off the smoke alarms" but that seemed kind of bold. Especially that early in the morning. "You're all dressed up. You must be going someplace special."

  "Nope. Back on the job." He flicked the right side of his suitcoat back just enough for me to see that he was wearing a leather shoulder holster with a gun in it. "No more administrative leave. Everything got cleared up and in my favor, I'm happy to say. All's well that ends—"

  "Well?"

  "Well, sometimes all's well just because it ends."

  "I'm glad." I was. I don't know what Quinn did to land himself in hot water but whatever it was, I suspected he had his reasons. Even if he would never share them.

  I glanced at the papers—my papers—that he still held in his hand. "You looking for something?"

  "Me? Nah." He set the papers back on the teetering stack of old newspaper clippings on my desk and stood. He was taller than I remembered. "I was wondering, though, why you stood me up last night."

  I sidestepped around him and over to my desk chair, and believe me, as tempted as
I was, I was careful not to brush against him. If we were going to fight about the fact that I'd canceled our dinner date—and from the thread of irritation that colored Quinn's words, I suspected we were—I couldn't afford to lose my concentration.

  I set aside my portfolio and sat down. Quinn perched himself on the edge of my desk, just a hair's breadth away from me.

  "Technically, I didn't stand you up," I said, looking up at him because, like I said, he was tall. "I called you," I reminded Quinn. "I left you a voice mail. I told you I had an evening tour last night and—"

  "Except that there was no tour scheduled for last night." One of the things Quinn had apparently been reading was the latest issue of the Garden View newsletter (complete with a listing of all our tours and lectures). "Want to try again?"

  "Only if you think there's some reason I owe you an explanation."

  He considered that for a moment or two before he shook his head. "Nope. There really isn't. Not if you didn't want to go to dinner."

  "Except I did."

  "Or if you think I'm a total loser."

  "Which I don't."

  "Or if you're telling me right here and now that you don't want to spend any time with me."

  "But I do."

  "Good. Because I want to spend time with you, too." Though we were in agreement, his smile was grim. "You've got to admit, it's only natural for me to be curious, then. Especially when you bail on me and spend your evening with Rudy Scarpetti."

  I stared at him, my mouth open, and when he pinned me with a look, I knew how it felt to be on the wrong side of this boy in blue.

  "How do you—?"

  "What are you up to, anyway?"

  By now, I had the story down pat. It didn't even feel like a lie.

  "I'm writing a book." I had the nerve to look Quinn right in the eye. "About Gus Scarpetti. I told you all that back at the police museum."

  "The way I remember it, you also told me you'd steer clear of these people. Hell, you promised! So why did you stroll into the homestead to interview the family?"

  I didn't like the tone of Quinn's question so I matched my voice with just the edge of steel that hardened his. "Yeah. That's pretty much exactly what I did. I called and requested an interview and—"

  "Ever wonder why Rudy Scarpetti's number is even in the phone book?"

  He had me there. I shrugged. "So he can get phone calls?"

  He rolled his eyes. "The number in the book is Rudy's public number. You know, the one he gives out at his country club and his church and his wife's women's groups."

  "He's married?" I had never thought to ask about the Cootie's marital status because really, I didn't care. It was just that—

  "He came on to you?"

  Quinn wasn't one to mince words. I glanced away. "It wasn't blatant. He just said—"

  "I can imagine." I wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not. "That didn't worry you?"

  "Should it?" As much as I enjoyed the scent of Quinn's expensive aftershave and being this close to him, I stood and sidled around to the other side of the desk. "Are you telling me I should stay away from Rudy?"

  "I'm telling you that these are dangerous people." Quinn stood, too, and turned to face me. "You have no idea what you're getting into."

  "I'm not getting into anything," I told Quinn and reminded myself. "I'm just asking a few questions. And none of them is about anything that's happened in the last thirty years, so how dangerous can it be? I talked to Rudy about his father, about Gus. I asked him what he knew about Gus's murder and—"

  "Pepper!" Quinn's voice cut me off. It was quiet, and it packed an emotional punch that hit me somewhere between my stomach and my heart. "Maybe you haven't been listening to me but I told you I'd like to see you again. That means I'd like to see you alive."

  "But I didn't—"

  "It doesn't matter. Not to these people. Rudy Scarpetti likes to put on a show. More than anything, he'd like a little respectability, a good image and a reputation like Mother Teresa's. He'd love to find some hack—no offense intended—to help perpetuate the myth. My guess is that's why he agreed to see you. He heard book. He thought publicity. And he figured he could convince you to make sure it was good publicity. Don't let the shiny exterior fool you. And don't think that contact with him can be casual or without consequences. Rudy's a criminal. His father was a criminal. And that big house was bought and paid for with blood money."

  I knew Quinn was right. But that didn't relieve me from my obligation to Gus, did it?

  "I promise not to do anything stupid." I held up two fingers, Boy-Scout style. "But there's more I need to know. Can you find out who killed Gus Scarpetti?"

  "It happened thirty years ago. What difference does it make?"

  "But my book—"

  "Find someone else to write about."

  It was as simple as that. At least to Quinn. Of course, he didn't know about the nine thousand dollars. Or about the dead don who was down but certainly not out. At least not out of my life.

  He also didn't know that once I'd made up my mind about something, I wasn't easily talked down. I thought back to something Rudy had mentioned the night before and gave Quinn the little pout that used to drive Joel wild. Call me egotistical but I could tell it still worked its magic. Quinn's pupils widened and he took a step closer to me.

  "I'm almost done with my research," I told him. "I've only got one more thing to check out. A retirement home. Rudy runs it for the guys who used to work for Gus."

  "Not a chance."

  So much for the magic of my pout.

  "Oh, come on!" I might be down but I wasn't out, either. I moved close enough to finger Quinn's lapels. "All I need is a name and an address and something tells me you're just the guy who can get it for me."

  "No."

  "Quinn… " The front of my yellow cami grazed his white shirt. "What could it hurt? They're a bunch of old bad guys. And they're retired, which means that technically, they're not even bad guys anymore. All I want to do is ask them a couple questions about the old days."

  "And you think you can turn on the charm and I'll give up the name of the place."

  "You think this is charm?" One step closer and my breasts pressed against Quinn's chest. "You ain't seen nothing yet!"

  "Then God help me!" Quinn laughed and fitted his hands around my waist. "Tell you what, if I hear anything that I think might help with your book—"

  "No, thanks." I backstepped out of his reach. "I don't need you to decide what's right for my book and what isn't. Besides, what could you possibly hear? You said it yourself, it all happened thirty years ago." Another thought struck. "Unless you're investigating something now that has something to do with the Scarpettis."

  "Brains and beauty." Quinn might have been handing out the praise but he didn't look happy about it. He dropped his hands and stepped back. "That's exactly what I've been trying to get through to you. They were dangerous people back in Gus Scarpetti's day and they're dangerous people now. Every single one of them. As a matter of fact, last night at Scarpetti's, you might have seen a certain business associate of Rudy's. Albert Vigniolli. Guy with a long, dark ponytail and a scar on his left cheek."

  "Doesn't sound familiar." I lied because it was easier than admitting that just giving a name to Goon #2 made me break out in a cold sweat. I didn't ask what Quinn's interest was in the guy. Quinn was with Homicide. That pretty much told me all I needed to know.

  Another piece of the puzzle clicked into place.

  "That's how you knew where I was last night." I pointed a finger at him in an aha sort of way. "You're working a case."

  Quinn didn't confirm or deny my suspicion. "Had a meeting with the FBI this morning," he said. "About a matter of mutual interest. They keep tabs on the Scarpetti place. And they keep track of who comes and goes."

  "Then they're the ones who… "

  "Followed you?" Quinn nodded, confirming something to himself. "I told them you were smart enough to pick up on it."
/>
  I swear, right then and there, I almost cried with relief. So they weren't exactly the Prize Patrol! Thinking that I'd been tailed by the feds was a lot more comforting than considering the alternative.

  Even if I was inclined (which I wasn't) to tell Quinn that I'd imagined it was Goon #1 or Goon #2 behind the wheel of that black sedan, I didn't get the chance. His cell phone rang. He took the call, flipped the phone closed, and headed for the door.

  "Got to go." He stepped out in the hallway and stopped. "By the way," he said. "You've got three unpaid traffic tickets you should take care of."

  "Have you been checking me out?"

  Quinn grinned. "Gonna do that. Later. I promise." As quickly as it came, his grin melted and his lips hardened into a thin line of determination. "You were listening, weren't you, Pepper? You were paying attention to everything I said?"

  "Cross my heart." I did, and watching the way my finger skimmed across my breast, Quinn's eyes darkened.

  "I'll call you," he promised. "And you'll stay out of trouble."

  It wasn't a question so I didn't answer it. I watched him leave. No sooner was he past Ella's office than she was out in the hallway and headed my way.

  "Oh my gosh!" She fanned her face with one hand. "You don't have to be premenopausal to enjoy that. Tell me all about him."

  "After you tell me about Dan." No way had I missed him, but I leaned into my office and looked around again. "You said two guys. What happened to the other one?"

  "You didn't give me a chance to explain. There were two. First the other one. Then that one." She peered down the hallway the way Quinn had gone. "When are you going to tell me—"

  "The other one. Dan. He must have stopped by to talk about his study. Did he leave a message or anything?"

  "Dan? Was that his name? I don't think he said."

  "Cute guy. My height. Shaggy hair. Glasses."

  Her face puckered with confusion. "The hair, maybe. But no, no glasses. And cute… ?" She wrinkled her nose. "I wouldn't call him cute at all. Not that I'm criticizing or anything. I mean, we can't judge other people by their looks. That's what I always tell the girls. But he does have that awful scar on his cheek."