Suddenly Daddy and Suddenly Mommy

by Loree Lough

  Mitch shifted uneasily in the chair. He’d faced leather-jacketed thugs in dark alleys. He’d been shot, beaten, kidnapped…had looked Death straight in the eye more times than he cared to remember. But none of it had stressed him as much as the pressure being put to bear on him now.

  “You bring Pericolo in, and you’re sure to get another medal.” Smirking, he added, “And I’ll get a feather in my cap, too, for being the guy who handpicked you.”

  He gave his words a moment to sink in. Mitch’s mouth had gone dry, and he licked his lips. A big mistake, as it turned out, because the lieutenant read it as hunger to go under.

  “First order of business…get rid of those sideburns. No more collarless shirts, no pleated trousers. Wingtips, not Italian loafers. You’ve got to look the part of a pencil-necked geek.” He hesitated. “Let’s face it, you’re the Clark Kent of accountants. Just do the best you can, stay away from kryptonite, will ya?”

  Mitch did not join in Bradley’s merry laughter. “The wife and I, we ah, left things in a bit of a muddle tonight. I only came down here to clear my head.”

  “You had a fight?” Bradley asked. “After just three weeks of marriage?”

  “Four,” Mitch corrected.

  The lieutenant shook his head. “Tough break, pal. You’ll be lucky if you even have a wife if you get back from this one.”

  Mitch stared hard at him. If? Thanks for the vote of confidence, pal.

  Standing, the boss handed Mitch a five-by-seven manila envelope. “Your new identity,” he said, then pointed at Pericolo’s file. “You know what to do with that.”

  It was a copy, of course, and once he’d memorized pertinent information, Mitch would burn it.

  Bradley’s matter-of-factness did little to blot Ciara’s image from Mitch’s mind. Every time he blinked, it seemed, he saw the way she’d looked just before she’d rushed up the stairs. He remembered thinking about that as he’d headed for headquarters. Just last week he’d been forced to cock back his arm and punch a thug to get him under control. In those first, tense seconds after fist connected with cheek, the perp’s eyes had widened with shock and pain. Ciara had worn the same expression….

  He didn’t want to leave her, not for a moment, especially not this way. He knew he could get out of going “in.” But Bradley had said this case would put a feather in his own cap. He ain’t gonna be tickled if you take that feather away, Mitch thought. He’ll bump your rank back so far, you’ll never catch up.

  But what if Bradley was right? What if Ciara wasn’t waiting for him when this was over? What difference did it make if he reached the top if she wasn’t there to share it with him?

  He needed to be part of this mission, but he needed to know she’d be there, waiting for him, loving him still, when it was all over…because he couldn’t afford to be distracted, not this time. And what could be more distracting than wondering whether or not the job might cost him Ciara?

  He posed the question lightly, as if it were a mere afterthought. “I won’t breach security, of course, but if I could give my wife a quick call, feed her some innocuous details, so she won’t worry….”

  Laying a hand on Mitch’s shoulder, the boss shook his head. “Sorry, Mahoney,” he said, almost gently. “You know the rules—the less she knows, the safer you’ll both be in the event that…” His mouth and brows formed a “you know what” expression.

  Mitch fingered through the contents of the envelope. Passport, driver’s license, credit cards, a library card. “It’s just…we didn’t part on a very pleasant note,” he said without looking up.

  He gave Mitch’s back a brotherly thump. “Now, don’t you worry, ’cause ole Uncle Chet is gonna take good care of your little lady.”

  The thought of it wrapped around him like a cold, wet blanket. Mitch shook off the feeling. He had to keep a clear head.

  Every man in his family was or had been a cop. Ciara’s father, too. They’d understand. They’d explain it to her, they’d be there for her. She’d be fine….

  Still, it was a strange, foreign thing, this feeling of resentment bubbling in the pit of his stomach. He’d never before felt torn between duty and—

  “There’s a blue Ford Taurus downstairs,” he said, grabbing Mitch’s wrist, plunking a set of keys into his palm, “and a reservation at the D.C. Sheraton in your, ah, new name.” Almost as an afterthought, he asked, “Did you go to church today?”

  He nodded.

  “Good.”

  Mitch heard the implication loud and clear. You’ll need all the Divine intervention you can get.

  “Now head on over to your hotel and get a good night’s sleep. First thing in the morning get yourself to the nearest mall.”

  Mitch nodded again. Outfitting himself for undercover assignments had filled his closet to overflowing. Too bad his aliases never had his taste in clothes.

  “Pericolo’s expecting you, one o’clock sharp,” Bradley added, “so when you get your new laptop, have the sales clerk load it up with all the latest accounting software…general ledger, spreadsheet, the works.”

  “I’m a CPA,” Mitch snarled, “I think I know what I need.”

  “We’re gonna get him this time, Mahoney,” he continued, ignoring Mitch’s pique. He aimed both thumbs at the ceiling. “I can feel it!”

  Mitch shuffled woodenly back to his desk, plopped the file and envelope near the phone, picked up the receiver. If Bradley hadn’t been standing there, watching and waiting, he might have called Ciara, to explain…or try to, anyway. He took a deep breath, shook his head. It’s better this way, he reminded himself. She’s safer, and so are you….

  He dialed nine for an outside line, then banged the receiver into its cradle. “What am I thinking? I can’t call a florist—it’s nearly eleven, and they’ll all be closed.”

  “So? Write her a note instead.”

  Mitch met the man’s steely gaze, and despite himself, decided there was truth in his words; a note would be better than a handful of cut flowers and a terse message penned by some unknown saleswoman.

  He pulled a yellow legal pad and black felt-tip from his desk. “Dearest Ciara,” he wrote, “I’m sorry for upsetting you tonight. First chance I get, I’ll explain everything, I promise.” He underlined everything three times, hoping she’d read the message between the lines. “Trust me, sweetie—I need that now. Don’t ever forget that I love you more than life itself, and I always will.” He signed it “Your grateful husband.”

  He folded the letter, sealed it in a plain white envelope and wrote her name across its front. With a deep sigh, he handed it to the lieutenant.

  A chill coiled around Mitch’s spine as Bradley tucked it into the breast pocket of his suit coat. It was like watching it go down a rat hole. He shook off the disheartening thought as Bradley said, “You’re my responsibility, and I take that very seriously. I won’t let you down. You have my word.”

  He wanted to spell out exactly what he thought Bradley’s “word” was worth, but thought better of it. He’s not much, but he’s all you’ve got. You can’t afford to rile him now….

  He grabbed the file and the envelope containing his new “self,” and they rode the elevator down to the lobby. The silence between them continued as they stood on the sidewalk outside headquarters.

  Mitch turned up his collar to fend off the wintry December wind. For a moment he stood on the corner of Ninth and Pennsylvania, oblivious to the screaming sirens and honking horns around him. Far in the distance, pin-pricks of light winked from the windows of houses in the D.C. suburbs, reminding him that forty-some miles away, a light glowed in a window in Ellicott City, too. And if he knew Ciara, she was standing in that window right now, watching for him….

  Mitch straightened his back. Cleared his throat. Bradley had said two weeks. Two weeks, he reminded himself. Maybe less. Not so long, really…. “Well, I’d better get a move on,” he said, and headed for the car.

  “Two for the price of one…I’m here for ya,
pal,” Bradley called after him.

  Without turning around, he threw a hand into the air, as if to say, “Thanks.” But the thought in his head was, Uhhuh, and the last horse to win the Derby was a mule.

  Mitch believed he understood what Chicken Little must have felt like, and gave a cursory glance toward the sky…just to make sure it wasn’t falling….

  Chapter Two

  A shaft of sunlight, slicing through the bay window, slanted across her face. Ciara came to gradually, and slowly acknowledged every kink and cramp in her joints. She’d fallen asleep in Mitch’s chair, cuddling the fluffy pillow he liked to tuck behind his lower back.

  She headed for the front door. “Please, God,” she prayed as she went, “let his car be out there, where it belongs.”

  Her sporty white Miata looked smaller and sad, parked alone at the top of the drive, as if it missed the companionship of the little red Mustang.

  Ciara didn’t know whether to be angry or hurt or terrified. She half ran to the kitchen, grabbed the telephone and dialed his direct line. She didn’t know what to say when he answered, but she knew this: it would be a relief to hear his voice. Angry or pouting or tired from spending the night at his desk, at least she’d know he was all right.

  She counted ten rings before a man said, “Hullo…”

  Once before, another agent had picked up Mitch’s phone. But that had been a weekday afternoon, not six o’clock in the morning. “Is Mitch Mahoney there?”

  “Hold on, I’ll check,” said the gruff, unrecognizable voice. And a moment later he said, “I don’t see him. Want I should take a message?”

  Ciara sighed. “No, thanks. I’ll try back later.”

  “Okey-dokey,” he chimed merrily, and hung up.

  She showered and dressed and called again. And again an hour after that. “Parker, here,” said the agent who answered this time.

  Briefly Ciara introduced herself. She didn’t want the guys at the office knowing their private business, and so she said, “He left a folder on the table. I just wanted to let him know it’s here.”

  “If I see him,” Parker said, “I’ll tell him.”

  “Is there any way I could find out where he is?” Ciara tried not to sound anxious. “I really need to speak with him.”

  “You could ask his lieutenant. Lemme see if he’s in his office.”

  She put on a pot of coffee while she waited on Hold, made it extrastrong, the way Mitch liked it, in case he came in before she got answers to her questions.

  “Lieutenant Bradley doesn’t usually get in till nine. I left a message on his desk to call you, Mrs. Mahoney.”

  A minute later she found herself standing with receiver in hand, staring into space. Ciara hung up, hoping she’d had the presence of mind to thank the man for all his trouble.

  “Where could he be?” she whispered.

  Chester, who’d been staring out the low-slung bow window in the breakfast nook, trotted over to his mistress. She’d more or less been aware that, as she paced back and forth with the phone pressed to her ear, the dog had been pacing, too…from window to window. He sat back on his haunches and whimpered for some attention.

  Distractedly she patted his honey-colored head, then opened the back door. “No digging under the fence, now,” she warned, wagging a finger. Chester sat in the open doorway, cinnamon brows twitching, caramel brown eyes pleading for a moment of affection.

  On her knees, Ciara wrapped her arms around his fuzzy neck. “You’re worried about him, too, aren’t you?” she asked, smoothing back his shaggy ears. He’d taken an immediate liking to Mitch—something not one of her former boyfriends could claim—so much so that she’d felt a pang or two of jealousy as the dog followed him from room to room. “Don’t you worry. I’m sure he’s fine.”

  Chester responded with a breathy bark, then bounded out the door.

  Ciara stood on the small porch and watched him, scampering after a squirrel. “If only I could stop worrying that quickly,” she said to herself.

  Something told her it wasn’t just the late-December weather that sent a shiver up her back.

  “Come in, Mr. Lewis, please, come in.” The swarthy man grabbed Mitch’s hand, shook it heartily. “My friend and your cousin, Buddy Kovatch, recommends you highly.”

  Your friend, Mitch thought grimly, is a stooge. But at least he’s earning the big bucks the government pays him to be a stooge. Buddy Kovatch had been a trusted Pericolo employee for nearly two decades. His last bust would have sent him up to Jessup for ten-to-fifteen if he hadn’t agreed to help put his boss away for good. The government buried the charges against Buddy, and in exchange, he put in a good word for the agency’s “plant.” And now Mitch, posing as Buddy’s cousin Sam, would “keep” Pericolo’s books until he gathered enough evidence to arrest him for tax evasion.

  Smiling, Mitch bobbed his head good-naturedly. “Please. Call me Sam.”

  Though he wore a wide, friendly smile, Giovanni Pericolo’s dark eyes glinted with icy warning. “Very well, then, Sam it is.” He gave Mitch’s hand a tight squeeze and added, “I hope for your sake, Sam, that you can live up to your stellar reputation….”

  He took a new deck of cards from his jacket’s inside pocket, unwrapped it, and handed the cellophane to a white-gloved manservant. “Pick a card, any card,” Pericolo said. Except for a hint of a South American accent, he reminded Mitch of every sleight-of-hand expert he’d seen on “The Ed Sullivan Show.” Without looking at the card he’d chosen, he handed it back to Pericolo. The Colombian gave it a cursory glance, replaced it in the deck and, silent smile still frozen on his face, led Mitch into the dining room, repocketing the deck as they walked.

  “Darling,” he crooned, “I’d like you to meet Sam Lewis, our new accountant. He’ll be spending a lot of time around here from now on.” He pulled her to him in a sideways hug. “Sam, this is Anna, my lovely wife.”

  The shapely blonde patted her husband’s ample belly, her wide smile barely disturbing her overly made up face. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said. “Won’t you have a seat? Dinner will be served momentarily.”

  Pericolo’s chest puffed out like a proud peacock’s as he moved to stand behind a teenaged boy. “My son, David,” he said, gently squeezing his look-alike’s shoulders. “He’s a big boy for fourteen, don’t you think? David, say hello to Mr. Lewis.”

  “Hello, Mr. Lewis.”

  The boy would not meet his eyes, a fact that made Mitch tense. “Good to meet you, David. You on the football team at school?”

  David shook his head.

  “Basketball?”

  He glared openly at Mitch. “Don’t like team sports,” he snapped.

  “Don’t have the grades to make the team, you mean,” said his sister.

  David cut her a murderous stare that not only immediately silenced her…it chilled Mitch’s blood as well.

  “And this,” Pericolo interrupted, concluding the introductions, “is my beautiful daughter, Dena.”

  Mitch guessed her to be sixteen, if that. Her bright red fingernails exactly matched her highly glossed lips, her hair dyed two shades lighter than her mother’s. The minidress and mascara-thick lashes told Mitch she had not been taught to dress for dinner by a churchgoing mother.

  She tilted her head flirtatiously to say, “Good evening, Mr. Lewis. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Same here,” he said carefully.

  Mitch followed Pericolo’s move and took a seat, resisting the urge to excuse himself, find a powder room and wash his hands. Pericolo looked like he’d just stepped out of the shower, so why had the brief handshake made Mitch’s palm itch, as if he’d smashed a spider bare-handed? He reminded himself that Pericolo had a reputation, too. Not just any spider, Mitch told himself, wiping his palm on his pants leg, a Black Widower.

  Bradley and the director had spelled it all out during the meeting last evening. Tax evasion would be the charge they’d hang Pericolo with, but it wasn’t the r
eason he’d made the FBI’s Most Wanted list. Mitch didn’t know of an instance when anyone had violated the law…man’s or God’s…the way Pericolo had.

  His crimes were far more sinister, more evil than any Mitch had seen to date. And he’d seen some grisly things in his years with the Bureau—drug kingpins, hit men, bank robbers, kidnappers, hijackers—tame as pussycats, in Mitch’s opinion, compared to Pericolo. Once he’d heard the details of the Colombian’s ghastly crimes, how could he turn his back on the assignment?

  Like many young men who dedicate their lives to fighting crime, Mitch, too, had started out with typically high-and-mighty ideals. Maturity, and the things he’d witnessed firsthand, had made him leave most of those lofty sentiments by the wayside. But so far, thankfully, he had managed to hold on to one objective: to do his small part in creating a safer, healthier life for kids. Those he and Ciara would have one day, even Pericolo’s kids, deserved that kind of protection.

  Rumor had it that Pericolo had no shame about what he did for a living, seeing himself as an “entrepreneur” who provided a certain group of “consumers” with a much desired product. Never mind that Pericolo had become one of the wealthiest men in the world by exploiting the weakest, most pitiful side of human nature.

  Mitch had to take this assignment. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have been able to live with himself if someday, one of Pericolo’s “hollow bodies” turned out to be that of a friend, the child of a friend, one of his own loved ones….

  “A toast,” Pericolo was saying, “to the newest addition to my business family.” Shimmering light, raining down from the Tiffany chandelier like thousands of miniature stars, glinted from the facets of his Waterford goblet and the bold gold-and-diamond rings on his long, thick fingers.

  Mitch lifted his glass, glanced at Mrs. Pericolo. Was it a carefully disguised warning…or smug satisfaction…that chilled her smile? How much did she know about Pericolo Enterprises? Did she understand how her husband acquired the wealth that put her in this thirty-six-room mansion? He’d seen two Rolls Royces when he parked the rented Ford in the circular drive…was Anna’s the silver or the gold one? Surely she suspected something, and if so, how had she taught herself to look the other way?