by Mary Calmes
He tried to let go of me, but I was not some girl he was used to hugging. The man only had three inches on me, more muscle, yes, but not enough to make me do anything without a fight. And I didn’t want him to let go. Holding him felt right for more reasons than I cared to concern myself with, but more importantly, he needed to be held. He was barely keeping it together, and the solid, grounded presence I was offering was necessary.
“Listen.” I squeezed tighter, talking into the hollow of his throat. “Just do what I say, all right? Take a shower and then walk over to my place with Michael.”
When he eased back, I let him. His closed eyes leaked tears, and when I brushed them away, he leaned into my palm.
It took every drop of restraint I had not to grab him. His need for comfort instantly filled me with a desire to have him naked in my bed. Making love to me would remind him that he was alive. Sex trumped death—the throb of yearning to show him he was still very much among the living, washed through me.
“Please tell me what the hell.” Michael’s voice was on the edge of cracking too.
I turned to look at him. “Your uncle was almost killed today, and his friends and Mr. Romelli were. So the funeral’s on Saturday, and we’re all going to go, all right?”
He nodded, absorbing the news, obviously more concerned for Dreo than anything else.
“So, I still have reading to do. You have something to write. You can do it with me, okay?”
He nodded before he started out of the room. “I’m gonna change. I’ll be right back.”
“Nate.”
I turned back to Dreo, his dark, wet eyes open and fixed on me as he put a hand flat on my chest.
“You don’t have to babysit us.”
“I do.” I smiled. “It’s actually written into the friend code.”
His hand pressed hard and then fisted in my T-shirt. “You and Michael are friends, not me and you.”
“No? Are you sure?”
He took a shuddering breath, and I studied the man’s face, the chiseled features, his lush mouth, the long, straight Roman nose and square jaw. He was all sharp angles, and that, paired with the dark eyes, thick black brows, and long lashes, made him seem like a study in shadow. I wanted to brighten him and make him smile again. I had been treated to the gleaming eyes once and found that in that instant, I had grown addicted.
“Did you eat?”
His laugh was sharp, high, slightly unhinged. “Fuck, you remind me of him, of Mr. Romelli, always wanting us to fuckin’ eat!”
I put my hand over his, which was still fisted in my T-shirt, and slowly, he loosened his grip and let his hand drop away. When Michael returned, Dreo left the room without a word.
“Bring him with you; don’t let him stay here alone.”
“I won’t,” Michael promised.
“I’ll make more tea,” I offered.
“Make chamomile.” Michael made a face. “That oolong crap smells like sweat socks.”
“Okay,” I said, tousling his hair as I passed by. Much to my surprise, he grabbed my hand and stopped me from leaving.
“What’s wrong?”
“Just—you do a shitload for me, Nate, and I want you to know that it means a whole lot, ya know? I mean, you know that, right?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve known you since I was twelve years old, and you’ve been just as constant as my family, as Dreo. You’ve been around, and it means a lot. Whatever you do, like when you talked to that guy tonight… I don’t care. I was just screwin’ with you.”
“I know that,” I told him, turning to face him.
It was awkward because he was sixteen, but when I lifted my arms, he was there, filling them, smashing into me so hard that it hurt just a little. I put his head down in my shoulder and rubbed gently, soothing him, petting him.
“I don’t care who you sleep with.”
Weird thing for him to say. “I know.”
“I hate funerals.”
“Me too,” I admitted. “But it’ll be all right.”
He nodded into my shoulder, and then he pulled free because he was done. I left fast, crossing the hall and returning to my loft.
It had gotten slightly chilly in the room, as by the second week in November, the air was cool outside and in. I had started a fire so that the flames were just beginning to flicker on the Duraflame log and the plain wood beneath it when someone knocked fifteen minutes later. The lights were low; there was very quiet John Coltrane on, and I was making the chamomile for Michael.
The younger Fiore was in sweats and socks and a threadbare T-shirt with an open sweat-jacket on over it. Dreo had on the same thing, except that he had a heavy zippered cardigan on over a T-shirt that fit snug, clinging to his sculpted chest, showing the definition in the hard pecs and washboard abdomen. Of course the man would be covered in rippling muscle. That just followed since he was gorgeous everywhere else. Not that I had ever noticed before the last two days. And now he was grieving, so it was tacky to even see him in any other light but simply needing company.
They walked by, stopped, and then stood, waiting for me.
“What are you doing?” I snapped at Michael. “Go put your crap down, get the laptop open, let’s go.”
He made a noise in the back of his throat and walked by, leaving me close to the door with Dreo.
“Anything I can get you? Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
He shook his head.
“Come on.”
He followed after me, and I led him down the short hall—past my office, the guest bathroom, my bedroom—until we finally reached the guest bedroom. It was a warm room done in mahogany and wine and umber.
“Lie down.” I pointed at the bed. “Yell if you need anything.”
He shook his head. “I don’t—I’d be better in my own bed.”
“Dreo—”
“This was stupid,” he said under his breath, turning and charging away down the hall.
I caught him before he passed my bedroom, grabbed his arm, and shoved him through the door. He corrected fast, whirled on me angrily, and stood there scowling when I flicked on the light.
My room, with the ivory walls and traces of brown and hunter green, the mission-style bed, the armoire, the wingback chair and ottoman, and the dark-brown flokati rug, was probably the most inviting space in the loft. The bed was turned down since I’d been in it, but in that instant I knew that I would not be the one back under the covers.
“Get in bed,” I ordered him.
He glowered.
“Now.”
Heavy sigh before I saw him visibly give up.
The man was exhausted and wrung out and weary down to his bones. He pulled off the cardigan, let it drop to the floor, and staggered over to my bed and crawled in. He collapsed, and his eyes were closed the minute he hit the pillow, my pillow, which he tucked an arm under and pulled tight. I heard him inhale deep, and then nothing. There was no other sound or movement after that.
I went and picked up his sweater, draped it over the end of the bed, and then flipped off the light but left the door open so he could hear Michael and me if he woke up. When I returned to the kitchen, Michael was making tea.
“And?”
“He passed out in my bed.”
“So you’re gonna sleep in the guest room?”
“I’ll sleep on the couch; you’ve got the guest room.”
“That ain’t fair. You should have a bed.”
“I like my couch,” I insisted. “I chose the fabric just for sleeping, since Jare always brings home a friend from college for the holidays.”
“Is he coming this year?”
“No.” I sighed. “This year he’s going to his girlfriend’s parents’ place in Connecticut.”
“I’m sorry,” he said and then perked up. “You can come over and have Christmas with us.”
“We’ll see,” I assured him since I already had offers from Melissa and Ben, people from work, my sister Becky and m
y sister Rachel. Not to mention the fact that we were all supposed to fly to Phoenix to have Christmas with my parents. My sister Rachel had said, “Over my dead body,” because she really wanted to have us all to her place in Denver. Becky and I had both laughed at her when my mother started with the world-class guilt trip and she was the first to cave, her plans flying right out the window.
“So do you have that play thing?” Michael asked me.
“It’s called a playbill, and yes, I have it. Do you want to look at the program too?”
“Yeah.”
I pointed toward the table by the front door where it sat with my keys, wallet, loose change, and receipt from dinner. When I sat down at my kitchen table, he joined me, laptop beside mine, the two of us together, me reading, him writing, both of us sipping our tea.
Chapter 6
DREO was gone when I got up in the morning, and I really wasn’t surprised. What did surprise me was Michael, asleep on the flokati rug that I had in front of the fireplace. He had one of my sofa pillows, and one of the many afghans that Becky had crocheted me over the top of him. He had not left for the guest room, happy, it seemed, to be there in close proximity to me.
I woke him up, told him to grab his laptop, and sent him off to change and get his ass to school. He was a little bleary but awake and thanked me for the night before.
“You’re welcome.”
“So your date is tonight, huh?” He waggled his eyebrows.
I pointed at the door.
“Are you gonna make breakfast?”
“For myself,” I told him. “Bye.”
He whimpered and whined himself out my front door. But I had seen the food Dreo kept in their house—just the different kinds of cereal was daunting.
The knocking kept me from the coffee pot, which was annoying. I threw open the door without even looking and was surprised not to find myself looking at Michael Fiore.
“Nathan Qells? Dr. Nathan Qells?”
“Yes.” I studied the two men in the hall.
“I’m Detective Lee, and this is Detective Haddock, Chicago PD. May we come in and speak to you, please? It’s a matter of some urgency.”
Both men pulled badges from the inside breast pockets of their suits, but I barely glanced at them. The trench coats, the crisp tone the first guy was using, it all sounded cop to me, and I had some experience with the breed, having dated one for two years. I stepped aside so they could come in.
“We have some crime scene personnel with us. May they enter as well?”
“Crime scene for what? Where?”
“Your fire escape.”
“What happened on my fire escape?”
“We believe someone fell from it.”
But there was no way. I would have heard something. “Sure, I guess.” I sighed, motioning them in, stepping aside to make room for the parade of people. I closed the door seconds later, turning to face the two detectives hovering close to me.
“Dr. Qells, do you know an Alfred Mangino?”
“No,” I answered before turning toward the kitchen, shuffling away. I needed coffee.
“Dr. Qells, do you—”
“You guys can sit down.” I yawned, rubbing my eyes as they began to water. I had read into the wee small hours and was now paying for it. Amazing how much things changed. In college I would have been up until dawn, taken a nap, and been ready to go. Or just not slept for three days, either/or. “I need coffee.”
They were silent a few minutes, and I knew I was probably freaking them out with my ease. Detectives should make people nervous. I should have been asking all kinds of questions about what they were doing there, but my ex was a cop, so I was used to all the cloak and dagger crap.
“Dr. Qells, are you sure you don’t know an Alfred Mangino?”
“Yes,” I said, squinting at the detectives.
Detective Lee was tall, dark, and very handsome except for the scowl he was trying for. It distracted from the hot. He was probably working on cultivating it to look scarier. I understood there had to be some kind of intimidation factor when you were a detective. His partner was a little older but alluring in a different way. He had the lifer look about him, a serious squint and something more. There was hardness in his eyes, but there were laugh lines around them.
“Dr. Qells, are you awake?”
It was an excellent question. The more I looked at Detective Lee, who was trying to look mad and failing miserably, and then at Detective Haddock, who looked like he needed coffee more than I did, the more comfortable I got.
“Sorry.” I sighed deeply. “I’ll try and focus.”
“Excellent,” Detective Lee said quickly. “Now, again, did you know Mr. Mangino?”
“No. Who is he?”
“We believe he fell to his death from your fire escape last night.”
“It’s not possible,” I assured him.
“And why’s that?”
I pointed with both hands outside. “I would have heard him if he was on my fire escape. It’s a really small space out there.”
“Were you home all night?”
“No.”
“Well, then it’s big enough, Dr. Qells. It was very windy yesterday, and if he was there, say, for some time… I mean, if he climbed up while you were out and stayed quiet until after you went to bed, it’s quite possible that you never had a clue.”
There was that.
“You went out last night?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask from when to when?”
So I explained that I had been at the opera until after ten and then stopped for dessert and come home. It was easily eleven by the time I had changed, and maybe eleven fifteen by the time Michael was pounding on my door.
“We found him in the dumpster this morning.”
“Sorry?”
“The guy, Mr. Mangino, that’s where we found him.”
“Oh.” I had been talking about Michael and thinking about Dreo and had not been listening at all.
“Dr. Qells?”
“I’m sorry, did you say that he fell from my fire escape into the dumpster?”
“Yes.”
I had to wrap my brain around that. “Amazing.”
“How so?”
“No, nothing, it’s just… tidy.” I shrugged. “I mean, of all the places he could fall, right? ”
He looked at me like I was nuts.
But it was tidy, no matter how both detectives were looking at me.
I coughed. “Why do you think he fell from my fire escape?”
“The medical examiner did a quick calculation of how far he would have had to have fallen to account for his injuries.”
“But he could have just as easily fallen from the fourth floor.”
“Perhaps, but—”
“Detective Lee.”
All three of us turned and looked at the CSI tech holding a baggie with a gun that had a silencer attached to it.
“Okay, so that answers that question,” Detective Haddock said as I turned to look at him. “Unless that weapon is yours, Dr. Qells.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Didn’t think so.”
There had been a man with a gun on my fire escape. It was just so strange.
“Did he slip?” I asked because it was all I could think of.
“We believe so, yes.”
“What a crappy way to go.”
No one contradicted me.
“How did you even find him?”
“Apparently Mr. and Mrs. Grace up in 801 had some friends over last night to celebrate a promotion Mrs. Grace got at work. They had a lot of bulk trash to take out this morning that wouldn’t fit down the chute.”
“That’s horrible,” I said, thinking how God-awful it must have been to find a dead man in the trash the morning after.
“They’re both still pretty shaken.”
I bet they were.
The crime scene people were very efficient and confirmed beyond a shadow of a do
ubt that Alfred Mangino had indeed been on my fire escape the night before. Along with recovering a gun, they had footprints, several cigarette butts, like he’d been waiting awhile outside, and a partially smeared handprint on my window glass that looked, they said, like that was where he had been leaning when he lost his balance.
“How did he lose his balance and fall over the railing?”
“Your guess is as good as ours right this second, Dr. Qells. When we know more, you will too,” Detective Lee told me.
“We’ll have to check the registration on the gun to see who it belongs to, but chances are good that the trace will lead to Mangino,” Haddock chimed in.
I nodded.
“So Mr. Mangino was a stranger to you?”
I had already answered that question one or two or ten million times by then, but that was okay. He was either being thorough or hoping my story would change. “Yes.”
“Well, Dr. Qells, so that you’re aware, Mr. Mangino is in our system. That’s why we were able to ID him so quickly from prints he left behind here.”
“Who was he?”
“Mr. Mangino was a contract killer, and we believe he was here to take your life.”
“Why?”
“We were hoping you could supply the reason.”
“I can’t. I’m not interesting enough for anyone to want to kill. There has to be some mistake.”
“And yet he was on your fire escape.”
“Huh.”
“Pardon me for saying, but you don’t seem all that concerned. You should be terrified.”
“I haven’t had any coffee yet,” I said by way of explanation. “I’m barely awake, and I cannot stress enough that there really has to be another explanation because seriously”—I put my hand on my chest—“not hit man fodder. And my life is not a movie, and I haven’t received any microfilm or witnessed a mob hit or anything remotely interesting in the least. You need to be looking for something besides me.”
“Who the hell is in charge of this clusterfuck?”
My head snapped up as both detectives rose to greet the man walking into my apartment. I had recognized the voice but was waiting for him to see me. He looked good, one of Duncan’s oldest friends whom I had once upon a time spent a lot of time with. It made me sad that he didn’t even realize he was in my apartment, but why would he? Duncan and I had always gone to his and his wife Lisa’s house and not ever invited them over to mine. My ex and I were only supposed to be friends, just buddies hanging out, nothing more. And once Duncan had walked out of my life, I had never seen either Jimmy or Lisa again. It was sad, really, but understandable. Duncan had not even been able to trust his friends with the truth of his homosexuality, though I had a feeling that at least Lisa had known. As it was, I had no doubt that James O’Meara had no clue that he was standing in my apartment.