Hell on the Heart

by Nancy Brophy

  The deputies exchanged a look. Finally, Carl shrugged. “Go ahead, but we don’t have no interview room, you’ll have to talk to them in their cell.”

  “No problem.”

  # # #

  An hour later John and D’Sean sat in their rented vehicle. D’Sean’s elbow was propped against the door and supported his head as he flipped through pages of notes.

  “This town gets what it pays for,” John said, seething from his encounter with the incompetent deputies. “Bobby Joe claims his salary’s so small he has to live at home with his mother. Which, according to him, is hell on his sex life.”

  D’Sean snarled, holding up a hand in warning. “Don’t tell me what goes on in the back of the patrol car.” He sat up straight and tossed the pages onto the dashboard. “Let’s go see this hag and then hit the road.”

  Not that it mattered, but John hated to let a challenge go. “You think she’s going to be a hag?”

  “If she was a looker, those crackers would forgive her anything. As it stands they hate her.”

  “Twenty bucks says she not only a looker but she’s smart as hell.”

  D’Sean hesitated, but John knew he couldn’t resist a bet. “You’re on, but she’s gotta be both. It’s almost five. Still at work, do you think?”

  “Let’s hope so, I suspect it’ll be more difficult to get into their gated housing compound.”

  Chapter Five

  The All-Seeing Eye was a fairly innocuous building. Black brick, two story with solid steel doors. No signage. The yellow dog sprawled across the sidewalk, thumped his tail in greeting, too lazy to rise.

  “You sure this is it?”

  John verified the address. “Why no sign on the door?”

  He turned the handle, pushed open the heavy door and stepped out of the wind into an enclosed alcove. Bullet-proof glass ran from the waist-high counter to the ceiling broken by only a speaker vent displaying an empty receptionist work station.

  To the right of the counter was another steel door. John pushed the handle and shoved his shoulder against the un-giving surface.

  “Eye in the sky,” D’Sean murmured and tilted his head in the direction of the security camera.

  “Hello,” John raised his voice.

  A plump woman shuffled around the corner. Her dark hair was bound in a messy top-knot, ink stained her fingers as though she’d been writing with an old fashioned fountain pen. She wasn’t old, maybe mid-forties, but her black dress made her look frumpy and out of date. “Sorry, I was catching up on the filing and didn’t hear the door open.” She peered over the teal blue and hot pink frames of her eyeglasses, studying both men from foot to head. “We’ve been expecting you. Please come in.” She pushed a button. Behind the door, the men heard a loud click.

  This time the door swung open. They were expected? The animosity had been so extreme he hadn’t thought the Sheriff’s office would call. But maybe he’d misjudged how a small town operated.

  “Take a seat in the conference room, others will be right with you.” She pointed toward a door. “There’s coffee already made and apple strudel’s on the counter. Help yourself.”

  They were being handled. John hated being handled. What was with this town? How long would it take to get down to the facts of the situation? He glared at the woman. Dark hair, dark eyes. She could be the gypsy bitch. “Are you Cezi Romney?”

  She moved past them. Despite her weight her movements were graceful. John and D’Sean were forced to follow her swaying hips simply to continue the questioning.

  By the time they entered the small conference room, she had a cup in one hand and the coffee pot in the other. She thrust the cup in John’s direction and bent to open a small refrigerator and held out a Mountain Dew to Lassiter. A thousand ants crawled up John’s spine.

  “Do you need a glass and ice?”

  His partner, a man known for maintaining his cool under fire, looked as visibly startled as John felt. “No. How do you know I drink Mountain Dew?”

  The woman closed the short distance between them. Her glasses hung by a beaded chain on her ample bosom bouncing with each step. She peered into the black man’s eyes. Fearless? Or stupid? Even stupid people knew better than to tweak a tiger’s tail.

  “You aren’t sleeping,” she said, her voice light and musical, soothing in a way John hadn’t heard before.

  He looked at his co-worker’s face and noticed the dark circles under D’Sean eyes and the weariness in his face. Why the hell hadn’t he been told him something was bothering his partner?

  Without invitation the woman cupped a hand around D’Sean’s throat under his ear. Had John not been watching, he might have missed the flash of surprise, but the angry snarl should have made anyone with a lick of sense back away.

  The gypsy woman didn’t move. “When is your mother’s surgery?”

  Instead of pushing her hand away, D’Sean clasped her wrist. His rich cocoa fingers contrasted with the milky whiteness of her arm.

  John couldn’t see her expression but his friend’s eyes were cold, his features impassive. Except for the twitching muscle in his jaw, D’Sean looked like what he was. A warrior. Afraid of nothing.

  Then his eyes closed, his chin dropped, his hand released her wrist and formed a fist as he massaged the skin that shielded his heart. “Tomorrow morning.”

  D’Sean’s mother was scheduled for surgery in the morning? For what? In eight years, D’Sean had only spoken fleeting words about his family and John never pried. The men on his team were entitled to their privacy.

  “Go to her. She’s calling for you, Binky.”

  If a black man could go pale, D’Sean did. His lips opened and closed like a freshly caught carp. A full minute passed before he was able to respond to her words. “It’s minor day surgery. I’ll be home in time to see her.”

  “Does your mother believe that?” Her voice gently questioned. “A lot of people think minor surgery is on someone else.”

  D’Sean choked back a startled noise and rolled his eyes. “Yeah,” he agreed. “If it happens to her, its definitely major.” The lines of tension around his mouth lessened.

  The woman pulled back her hand and stepped back. The heaviness in the air visibly eased. “I’ll tell Cezi you’re here,” she said as she walked from the room.

  John raised the cup he still held to his lips and took a sip. Immediately his mouth and throat rebelled as he choked down the first swallow. The coffee had the consistency of pancake syrup and was almost as sweet. No sink for him to toss it. How could anyone drink this?

  But his issues were negligible. D’Sean gripped the back of the chair and viciously twisted the screw cap on the plastic bottle. In one long swig, D’Sean raised the drink to his lips and gulped it down like a man dying of thirst. Lowering the bottle he belched and then barked out a staccato laugh.

  John searched for words to offer and finding none, took another sip of coffee to fill the moment. D’Sean looked in his direction for the first time. John waited with the cup at his mouth. When neither spoke, he drank again.

  “Spooky, huh?” He finally broke the silence. “I’m sensing why the sheriff’s office might have a fear of gypsies.” John spoke quietly, hoping his little joke would relieve the tension in the room. He crossed to the pot and refilled his cup. The sweet syrup was growing on him.

  Through clenched teeth, D’Sean’s muttered, “Let’s get this over with.”

  When John pictured a group of men defined as male gypsies, he visualized long hair, gold earrings, puffy shirts and flamboyant scarves, not the two middle-aged men in expensive tailored suits and Wall Street haircuts who strode into the room moments later. An air of dominance surrounded them like a comfortable cape. John worked in DC, land of powerful men. Without a doubt they would not only fit right in, but would be influential in the right circles. Armadillo Creek, Texas was the least likely place for these men to appear. Yet, seeing them reminded him, the men they sought would be able to hide in plain sight
also. And had been doing it for years.

  The shorter man with an easy grin and graying temples assumed control. Both refrained from stepping close enough to shake hands. “Luca Romney.” He tilted his head in greeting. “My brother, Nicholae, understands English better than he speaks it, so unless you have a specific question addressed to him I will speak.”

  “Agent John Stillwater and Agent D’Sean Lassiter, FBI.” The men flashed their badges in unison. John immediately took charge of the conversation. “Armadillo Creek had a murder Friday night. The Sheriff’s office believes you,” he hesitated, not wanted to use the phrase ‘you gypsies’. He wouldn’t have liked the phrase ‘you Indians’ and Lassiter would have thought the words ‘you blacks’ were a call to battle. “Were you witnesses?”

  Both men crooked one corner of their lips in the same fashion. “I have no idea why the Sheriff’s office thinks that,” Luca said. Neither man appeared the least upset by the question.

  Instead, Luca spoke directly to D’Sean. “My sister apologizes if she upset you. She’s very good at guessing problems of the…” He and his brother exchanged a glance and they spoke rapidly in a guttural language. “…problems of a physical nature. She spoke only from the heart and did not mean to startle you.”

  D’Sean shrugged like it meant little to him, but the lie failed to convince, when he asked, “How did she know about my mother?”

  Luca shrugged. “All my life I’ve wondered the same question. Women in our family keep their secrets.”

  The gypsies worried him. Their sister bordered on frumpy, yet these men could poise for the cover of GQ. Nicholae with his silver hair and suave demeanor gave no impression of following the conversation, but John doubted he missed a thing. In fact of the two men, it was the silent Nicholae, John sensed was the real man in charge.

  “Are all your employees family?” John asked, trying to draw an org chart in his mind. When Luca nodded, John continued as the men took seats around the table. “How many?”

  “Only the three you’ve met…”

  Maniacal feminine laughter drifted through the closed door. Both the gypsy men lowered their gazes to the floor in a poor attempt to shield their amusement. “And occasionally Norman Bates’ mother joins us.”

  The door flung open and a small pixie with a purple dew rag tied around her head, orange safety goggles and an oversized lab coat burst in. “I knew I could do it.”

  John was surprised by the lyrical tone emitting from a body no taller than that of a twelve-year-old. If she’d worn a towel as a cape and announced she was a superhero, it would have appeared in character. Both John and D’Sean rose out of politeness.

  “The fluming chamber worked.” She did a half circular dance and came to a dead stop in front of the two agents. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were occupied.” Her dimples disappeared.

  “Agents Stillwater and Lassiter are here from the FBI,” Luca said, rising also.

  The pixie made a dubious sound and spun on her heel to leave. “No, they’re not.”

  Luca spread his hands in a surprised gesture. “They showed us ID.”

  “I’m sure they did,” she threw her words over her shoulder and departed as quickly as she’d appeared.

  “Norman Bates’ mother?” Sarcasm dripped from Stillwater’s lips. “AKA Cezi?”

  Luca nodded, but for the first time Nicholae spoke, “Czigany.” His firm tone declared FBPA agents were not allowed to use an affectionate nickname. No need to ask which man was her father.

  “Czigany,” Stillwater repeated. The name beaded on his tongue and rolled like liquid mercury. “I thought she’d be older.”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “Never would have guessed. She’s tiny.”

  D’Sean cleared his throat and held out his hand palm up wiggling his fingers in expectation. Annoyed, John reached into his pocket and grabbed his money clip, then slapped a twenty into D’Sean’s waiting hand. “I suspect Czigany is who we’ve come to see, but you already knew that.”

  Luca’s eyes twinkled. While Nicholae maintained a somber countenance, Luca enjoyed a good joke. More than anything John wanted to be offended, but found it difficult to suppress his smile.

  Luca cast him a pitying look. “Perhaps before you meet her, you would like a little advice?”

  John ran his hand through his thick hair. “I’m sure I’ll need it.”

  “Don’t lie to my niece again. She has an uncanny ability to sniff out untruths. And even though she’s petite, there’s a firecracker packed inside. Unless you’re prepared for the results, don’t light the fuse.”

  “Did she report a black limo to the Sheriff’s department?”

  “You’ll have to ask her about that. Follow us. We’ll take you upstairs to her laboratory.” Luca’s pronunciation of the word laboratory, sounded like something out of Frankenstein movie, la-BORE-a-tory.

  He was amused, but John’s anger bubbled below the surface. He’d better get some straight answers from the girl because so far this trip had been a wasted effort. They didn’t have time to lose. Entering the stairway behind Luca, he detected a slight limp the older man had been able to disguise until he mounted the stairs.

  Luca never glanced in his direction, but spoke conversationally, “I failed to jump fast enough to avoid a bullet.”

  John grunted. “Done that myself. Stings, doesn’t it?”

  “Particularly when the weather changes. This storm’s going to be a bad one.”

  John glanced around, aware that the building held no windows. The lighting was fluorescent. Had the building been designed for security or efficiency? Even in a small town there were those who understood, the world wasn’t really a safe place. The girl remained the real mystery.

  “Is Czigany a technician or does she investigate as well?”

  “Oh, she investigates. We try to keep her out of harm’s way, but trouble has a way of finding her.” They reached a small landing with a closed door. Luca stepped aside to allow the men to enter.

  “I’m surprised the Sheriff’s office mentioned the limo. They certainly discounted it when making their arrest.”

  “They also declared she was an unreliable witness.”

  Luca chuckled. “Naturally.”

  John entered the room and an involuntary low whistle of appreciation escaped his lips. The center of the room contained a glass structure filled with stainless steel tables, cabinetry and computerized equipment. The room glowed with sunlight from a large skylight that covered most of the ceiling. Local law enforcement agents across the nation would kill for such a set up.

  As though her personal ensemble had not been strange enough, she’d added a hot pink baseball cap and thin, white latex gloves. Cezi frowned when the men entered then ignored them as she transferred fingerprints from beer bottles to slides.

  John stepped closer, but stopped when Nicholae narrowed his eyes and raised his hand in warning.

  “Shall I have them wait in your office?” Luca appeared unperturbed by her behavior.

  She never looked up from her work but responded in a torrent of the same guttural language the men had used downstairs. For the first time the quiet man took charge.

  Nicholae folded his arms across his chest and argued with her. Back and forth the words volleyed with Cezi shaking her head and the silver fox not backing down one iota. Neither John nor D’Sean were language experts. His partner’s head physically followed the speakers shifting from one to the other, but John doubted D’Sean understood their words any better than he did.

  After several minutes John tapped his foot in impatience. He debated opening his mouth to end the dispute by establishing his authority. He was the law here, whether or not she thought he was FBI didn’t matter. FBPA agents did not advertise their existence and even though the connection was weak, stating they were FBI was not technically incorrect. What difference did the letters make? He was a government agent.

  Personally, he didn’t give a rat’s ass what she did or
did not want to do. Before he could act, Nicholae pointed at him and said in unaccented English, “He’s Indian.”

  Whether it was a groan or growl she emitted, he didn’t know, but for the first time, she looked up from the table. “What tribe?”

  “Blackfoot and Flathead.”

  His background wasn’t a secret. He sported the high cheekbones, straight dark hair and eyes of his ancestors. It never occurred to him heritage would be an issue with gypsies.

  “We’ll wait in your office,” Luca said, and the two men ushered D’Sean out the door.

  Cezi’s lips disappeared into a thin straight line. The orange safety goggles distorted her features, but her unabashed perusal was unsettling. He turned his head, hoping to let his scars intimidate her, but glancing back he realized he’d miscalculated the situation. She was neither repulsed nor fascinated, merely analytical.

  Another mark against the deputies. This woman was anything but E-Z. They were right to be afraid of her. She could run circles around them. Even he’d missed the mark during their brief meeting downstairs. Petite, but tough. And smart. And she had the cojones to get a Sheriff removed from office without blinking an eye. With any luck he’d found his first real break in this case.

  Her lips pursed and an exasperated sound sputtered out. “I don’t have time for this.”

  She jerked the orange safety glasses off her nose, the baseball cap and dew rag followed, bouncing across the stainless steel table. A tangle of thick black hair tumbled past her shoulders to the middle of her back.

  Even knowing her age, he expected the face and body of a child, not the slender, slightly exotic, angel who stood before him. Despite her diminutive size she was a one-hundred percent fully grown woman.

  John couldn’t help himself. He had to touch her. Sometimes skin-to-skin contact helped him get a clearer fix on a person. Her father and uncle avoided touch, would she?