“I hope the police arrest you. Call the police, Martha-Anne,” she called to the clerk, who dropped the phone and ducked under the counter.
“You hit me first,” Aggie said. “I’m having you arrested for assault.”
“I hope we don’t need the police,” I said, forcing her backwards by twisting her right arm up between her shoulder blades. “Starla, get up.” I could hear Mrs. Wendell’s voice from the fifth-grade etiquette class Mom had stuck me in, saying, “Ladies, let’s strive for a little decorum.” I was tempted to emulate her, but I didn’t think I could pull off her velvet-glove-over-iron-will tone. And Starla and Aggie were not exactly giggling ten-year-olds.
Starla stood, twisting the elastic waistband of her skirt around to the front and brushing a hank of hair off her forehead. Judging that Aggie now had control of herself, I released her but stayed near enough to grab her if she went for Starla again.
Aggie, looking half-abashed and half-angry, tucked the tail of her pink blouse back into her jeans. Snatching a handful of tissues from a box on the counter, she crammed them against her still-bleeding nose. “I loved Wosko.”
“So did I,” Starla chimed in.
“I loved him more.”
“Not possible.”
“He loved me more.”
“Sure. That’s why he was divorcing you and marrying me.” The smug expression on Starla’s face made even me want to slap her.
Aggie started toward her rival again, and I stepped between them. “Stop. Aggie, we’re leaving now.”
“Why do you call yourself ‘Aggie,’ anyway?” Starla asked, her tone implying it was just one more example of Aggie being difficult. She smoothed her hair with her palm. “Dennis always called you Delia.”
“Delia is my real name, but most of my friends call me Aggie. You can call me Mrs. Woskowicz,” she added, clearly trying to rile the other woman.
As Starla fumed, Aggie went on. “AG is the chemical symbol for silver, so some of my nerdier friends thought it was clever to call me Aggie. It stuck.” She bent to pick up her loafer and slipped it on her foot.
“Why silver?” I asked, a funny prickling at the back of my neck.
“Silver was my maiden name,” she said.
Her words hit me like a piano dropped off a third-floor balcony. My mind raced, remembering she had mentioned a brother named Billy who was tight with Woskowicz. “Come on,” I said, herding her out of the store. “I need to talk to you.”
“And stay away,” Starla called, all bravado now that Aggie had herself under control. I looked over my shoulder to see her standing, arms akimbo, in the middle of the heaps of clothing. Despite the blood splotches dotting her daffodil chenille top and silky pants, not to mention her mussed hairdo and chipped manicure, she looked as satisfied as a junkyard dog who had successfully defended her territory. I wondered if I should cancel the self-defense classes.
“I’m sorry,” Aggie muttered once we were out of Starla’s Styles. She eased the tissues away from her nose, determined that it wasn’t bleeding anymore, and dropped them into a trash can. “I don’t normally lose it like that. But when the cops came by first thing this morning, saying they’d ‘heard’ that I was angry about Wosko divorcing me, that I’d made threats, and asking me all sorts of rude questions, I lost it.”
“Let me buy you a cookie,” I offered. I mounted the Segway, and she walked beside me the short distance to the food court.
Jay greeted me with a smile and a questioningly cocked eyebrow but simply handed over two cookies and coffees when I shook my head to show this was not a good time. I also asked for a cup of water, which I handed to Aggie, along with a napkin, and indicated she might want to swab some blood off her nose and chin. Dipping the napkin in the water, she rubbed off the blood, ignoring the spatters on her blouse, and then devoured half the cookie in short order. Taking a sip of coffee, she said, “I get low blood sugary when I don’t eat. I should never leave the house without breakfast.” She finished off the cookie before I’d taken two bites of mine.
“Does your brother work for Allied Forge Metals?” I asked.
“He owns it. Why?” Suspicion lowered her brows.
How to answer that? Because I suspect he murdered your soon-to-be ex-husband? Because I think he supplied the gun your precious Wosko used to kill a teenager? Hm. Before I could say anything, she solved my dilemma.
“Oh, because of the gun that was used to kill that gangbanger?”
My brows soared toward my hairline and I nodded.
“Billy’s been so upset about that. I suppose you saw in the news that that gun had been turned in as part of a gun amnesty program. Billy was livid when I emailed him the link to the article that ran in our local paper. He says the cops running the program must have held back some guns instead of passing them along to Allied for destruction.” Pressing her fingertip on the cookie crumbs that sprinkled the table, she licked them off her finger.
I studied her. She looked remarkably unconcerned, and I got the distinct feeling she was telling the truth or, at least, the truth as she knew it. Of course, she was unaware—I assumed—that Woskowicz had hidden the gun in his file drawer. “Is it hurting your brother’s business at all?”
“Nah. He’s got plenty of contracts. His business isn’t all gun destruction, you know.”
I bit into my cookie, not sure what else I could ask her without revealing facts I knew Detective Helland would crucify me for leaking. “You said your brother came to visit not long ago—were he and Woskowicz close?”
“Two peas in a pod,” Aggie said, pulling a face. “They could talk politics, taxes, the state of the economy all day long, sounding like a show on Fox News. And they were both into guns big-time and went to a shooting range together sometimes. Too damn loud for me.” She looked at the large, stainless steel watch on her wrist. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got a couple coming back for another test drive. The pregnant ones who want the van.” Glancing down at her sullied attire, she added, “I’ll have to change before meeting them. Thanks for the cookie.” She hesitated. “And for not calling the cops on me back there.” She jerked her head toward Starla’s Styles.
Rising to my feet, I said, “Maybe you’d better stay away from her. She seems to push your buttons.”
“You got that right,” Aggie said, eyes smoldering anew. She gave an awkward laugh. “I guess what goes around comes around, right? Or we make our own karma.”
I guessed she was referring to the fact that she had filched Woskowicz from Paula and now was on the other side of the equation. “Hey,” I asked, “did you ever find the key to the safe-deposit box?”
“No.” She sounded disgruntled.
“Just out of curiosity… what’s in there?”
She opened her mouth as if to snap out “None of your business,” then closed it and thought a moment. Maybe because she figured she owed me for not calling the police, she finally said, “Tapes.” She looked half-embarrassed, half-mischievous.
So Joel had been right. Ick.
“Not videos. Cassettes. Wosko liked to record some of our… special phone conversations. That’s how we met—I worked for a phone-sex outfit.”
I goggled at her, completely surprised. Before I could answer, she gave me a cocky grin and walked off, chucking her cup in the direction of the trash can. When it fell short, she didn’t stop to pick it up. I retrieved it and plunked it in the trash along with my own, then turned to see Jay Callahan beckoning to me from Lola’s.
Remembering that I wanted to tell him what I’d learned about guns, I crossed to his counter, trying not to wonder if selling used cars paid more than being a phone-sex provider. They both probably paid better than being a mall cop.
Jay interrupted my speculation. “Do you have time to come in for a moment?”
Without waiting for an answer, he disappeared into his kitchen and then reappeared at the door that opened to the left of the counter. Curious—I’d never been in one of the food court kitchens—
I followed him into the kitchen and looked around. The space was compact, but intelligently laid out and clean as an operating room. Maybe cleaner if what I’d been reading about infections at hospitals was true. A deep stainless steel sink was set into a tile counter. Ovens with lots of racks set close together for cookie sheets gave off a warm glow.
“Stand here.” Jay patted the doorjamb in the opening that led to the sales counter. “Let me know if we get a customer. My helper’s not in this morning, and I’ve got to make more cookies.”
Leaning against the jamb, I watched as he scrubbed his hands in the sink, slid on single-use gloves, and retrieved dough from the freezer.
“So, are you going to play outfield for us Monday?” he asked. “I’ve got an extra glove you can borrow.”
I’d made up my mind to pass on the softball, knowing I’d look like a total idiot if a ball came my way, but something about his expression, challenging yet mischievous, made me say, “Sure. What time?”
“I’ll pick you up at six. So, what brings you to my cookie lair this morning, other than the desire to watch the amazing cookie maker at work?”
“Celio Arriaga, the guy whose body was left here, was his gang’s weapons procurement officer,” I said. “Why are you grinning?”
“‘Weapons procurement officer.’ No one would guess you were in the military. Go on.”
“I suppose you read about the murder weapon having been surrendered to a New Jersey gun amnesty program?”
He nodded, laying out rounds of peanut butter cookie dough on a series of cookie tins. I liked the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck. It would be crisp and springy under my fingers. I reined in my thoughts.
“Well, the man who runs the company that was supposed to destroy the guns was Woskowicz’s brother-in-law.”
“Really?” Jay stopped and looked at me. “Have the cops talked to him?”
“I did,” I said with smug satisfaction. “Grandpa Atherton and I drove up there yesterday. He seems to think the police department is to blame for the ‘misplaced’ guns.”
“Of course he does,” Jay said, resuming his task. When he had four cookie sheets filled, he slid them one after another into the oven and set the timer.
“Do you think it’s possible he was really selling the guns to Arriaga for the Niños Malos? Or that he and Woskowicz were?”
Stripping off his latex gloves, Jay crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the counter. I’d never thought about it before, but there was something sexy about a man who was comfortable in a kitchen. “It’s possible,” he answered. “Although I’d think Woskowicz would be leery of having any contact with gang members, given his position. He couldn’t afford to be seen with them, I wouldn’t think.”
“Maybe that’s why he went to the battlefield—to meet them where no one would see them together? But something went wrong and one of them killed him? That still doesn’t explain why Woskowicz killed Arriaga—if he did—or why he kept the gun. Wouldn’t you think he’d be smart enough to fling it into the nearest river or a Dumpster several miles from here?”
“You knew him better than I did,” Jay responded.
The scent of warm peanut butter filled the small room, and I knew I had to leave before they came out of the oven or I’d eat fifteen of them. “I’m beginning to think I didn’t know him at all.”
“I saw the ad for his job on the mall website,” Jay said. “Are you interviewing for it?”
“Today.”
“Good luck. I’ll take you out to dinner to celebrate your promotion.”
“There may be nothing to celebrate.” I was deliberately trying not to get my hopes up; I’d suffered too many rejections lately.
“I’ll take you out to dinner anyway.” He took a step forward, which brought him to within six inches of me. I was absurdly conscious of his broad shoulders and his subtle soap-and-warm-cookie scent. My lips parted slightly and I looked up at him.
“Hey, can we get some cookies out here?” A woman’s voice drilled into the kitchen, and Jay slipped past me with a quick, rueful smile, saying, “Certainly, ladies. What kind did you want? Buy four and the fifth one’s free.”
My face warm with embarrassment—had I really been prepared to kiss a man in a food court kitchen while I was supposed to be working?—I ducked out the door, retrieved my Segway, and scuttled back to the security office.
Twenty-four
I was on the verge of calling Detective Helland to tell him what Grandpa and I had learned yesterday—not much—when he called me.
“Cruz Guerra’s story fell apart,” he said without preamble. His voice was cool and impersonal, and I could tell he regretted recruiting me to help him. “A middle school girl came forward to say he was with her, indulging in illegal substances, when he said he was shooting Arriaga. We let his mother have a go at him, too, and he has recanted his story. His mother says she thinks he was only trying to impress his brother, Enrique. She’s trying hard to keep him away from Enrique—doesn’t want her baby sucked into the gang—but I think she’s fighting a losing battle. No father in the picture, of course.”
“So you’re looking at other suspects again. You need to hear what I found out yesterday.” I summarized Grandpa’s and my encounter with William “Billy” Silver, brother of Aggie and brother-in-law of Dennis Woskowicz.
“That’s worth following up on,” Helland said. His voice was detached, not effusive, but I felt like he’d handed me a gold medal.
Get over it already, I told myself. “Did you ever get a chance to talk to Eloísa?” I asked.
“No.” Helland’s tone said he wasn’t happy about it. “She’s staying with an aunt out of state. We got the parents to agree that a local cop could interview her, but he got nothing useful from the girl.”
“She’s scared of Enrique. She—” My gaze fell on my watch and I leaped up. “I’ve got to go. Interview. Bye.” I hung up as Helland started to say something—probably something about staying away from the investigation now that he was back on the case—and dashed out of the office with Joel shouting “Good luck” after me. I allowed myself two minutes in the ladies’ room to comb my hair and apply lipstick, and then I headed for the parking lot.
The interviews were taking place at the Figley and Boon Investments headquarters in Dale City, Virginia, a good half hour north of here. The traffic gods weren’t feeling surly today, and I arrived with fifteen minutes to spare, time to take a deep breath and run through probable questions and responses mentally before an admin assistant ushered me into the conference room exactly on time.
I found myself facing Curtis Quigley and three people I didn’t know, all arrayed on the far side of the conference table, legal pads and water glasses in front of them. A single chair sat on my side of the table and I moved toward it, assessing the interviewers as I did. An ash-blond woman in her fifties peered at me over the rim of glasses sagging halfway down her nose. A human resources exec, I’d bet. Beside her sat a corpulent man, a bit younger, skimming messages on his Blackberry. He looked up impatiently when I entered and went back to his email. Quigley came next. The woman in the last seat sat with hands folded primly in front of her and wore a pale pink suit I thought might be Chanel. She gave me a friendly smile and I smiled back.
Quigley made introductions and started the ball rolling with, “Thanks for coming in on a Saturday, Ms. Ferris. Please tell us about your qualifications for the director of security job.”
Most of the questions I’d anticipated, preparing answers about my management style, my experience, and my ideas for making the mall safer. As we neared the end of my allotted hour on the hot seat, the Blackberry man asked, “Isn’t it true that there’s been a rash of bodies at the mall in the last couple months?” Quigley had introduced him as the FBI vice president for retail operations. “How would you stop that disturbing trend if you were the director of security?”
“There’s no way to guarantee there’ll never be another body a
t Fernglen,” I said bluntly. “But we can reduce the chances by upgrading our camera system and by authorizing our officers to carry weapons. Tasers, perhaps.”
“Armed guards might intimidate our shoppers,” the man said. “We don’t want to look like we’re running a police state,” he added, his gaze flicking to his Blackberry again.
“Studies show—”
“A new camera system would cost money.” The blonde with the glasses drew back, disapproval etched on her face. She was from the FBI budget office, not human resources as I’d assumed.
“Yes,” I agreed, “but the potential gain—”
“Lots of money.”
The pink-suited woman on the other end, the real HR executive, interrupted to ask, “What would you do about the uniforms if you were made director of security?”
The uniforms? I tried to keep the bafflement off my face. “We could save money by continuing to use the same uniforms,” I said, trying to placate both interviewers at once.
“They’re so drab,” the Chanel wearer said, pursing her lips. She gestured toward my uniform with an up-and-down motion of her hand. “Boring. Our malls are upscale, fashion-forward… Shouldn’t all our employees be walking advertisements for our merchandise?”
To my relief, the administrative assistant reappeared just then and the panel thanked me for my time and said they’d be in touch after all the interviews had been conducted. I thanked them and left, slightly cheered by the approving nod Quigley gave me. I’d been doing pretty well, I thought, up until the last five minutes. Boring uniforms? I shook my head, chuckling to myself as I returned to my Miata. She must have been kidding, trying to see if I’d bite and recommend spending money on “fashionable” new uniforms.
That evening, after a roasted beet and goat cheese salad from a recipe I’d cut from a magazine months earlier and been meaning to try, I sat in the living room, strumming my guitar and watching Fubar playing with his feather toy. I was trying to teach myself Isaac Albeniz’s “Asturias” and struggling with one of the chord progressions. I should look into taking lessons again, I thought, surprised by the way my spirits lifted at the thought. I hadn’t played seriously since before Afghanistan. I’d ask around about teachers Monday, I decided, by calling music stores in the area to see who they recommended.
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