I stopped dead in my tracks. “You made me tripe? Are you crazy?”
“You loved it as a little girl—I used to make it for your father.”
I sniffed the air and wrinkled my nose. “So that’s what that awful smell is.” I buried my face in Gus’ shoulder. “God help me, the woman is insane,” I said playfully.
“It’s delicious,” she insisted. “You’ll try it, won’t you, Gus?”
“I’ve never heard of it,” Gus said. For the record, tripe is an Italian dish. Gus’ mother is Greek. BTW, her moussaka is to die for.
“It’s stomach lining,” I volunteered. “It’s absolutely putrid.”
“It can’t be that bad,” Gus said, but I could tell he was just trying to be nice. “Sure, I’ll try a little.”
“He’s afraid to say no. Where’s Ricky?” I asked.
“I sent your brother to the bakery for some fresh Italian bread. He’ll be back soon.”
“Gus, our baby’s going to think I’m a whale.”
“Don’t worry, babe,” Gus said. “I’ll let you know the moment I spot a blowhole.”
Gus’ blowhole-comment made me chuckle. This was the third week in a row that Ma had invited us to dinner. The menu varied each week, but the calorie count was always in the stratosphere. “Sit down in the living room, I’ve got to check on the roast. Would you like a beer, Gus?” Ma asked.
“I’d love one. Thanks,” he said.
“How about you, Stephanie, care for a cold one?”
“Ma, you know I can’t have any alcohol.”
“One beer? You can’t have one little bottle of beer? It’s full of vitamins.”
“I take vitamins.”
“It’s not the same,” she said. “Hops are good for you.”
“No beer,” I reiterated.
“Okay, I’ll just bring one for Gus. You can taste his if you like.” Ma walked into the kitchen.
“I’ll lay you straight odds she returns with two bottles.”
Gus smiled and gave me a kiss. “You’ve made her really happy.”
“I didn’t do it alone.” I nuzzled his neck and whispered in his ear. “All this talk about food is making me horny.”
Gus smiled and raised a pointer finger as if he were signaling for a waiter. “Check please.”
“Yeah you just try. Ma will cut you off at the knees—you’ll never make it to the door. You think you’ve seen some tough hombres on the street? They’re nothing compared to my mother. You’re not getting out of here until you’ve been stuffed like a piñata.”
“But I want to go home and mess around.”
“Not a prayer, boyfriend. By the time Ma gets finished with you, you won’t have the energy to take off your socks.” He sighed—alas, he knew I was right.
I heard keys in the door lock. I turned just as my brother Ricky walked through the door. He gave me a huge smile, dropped the bag of bread on the floor, and ran over to give me a hug. That was Ricky. He was a man with the mind of a child, but I loved every inch of him. He hugged me as if he hadn’t seen me in years. His greeting was always the same. It was like being greeted by a Labrador retriever—unconditionally loving.
“You look great, Stephanie,” he said. “Ma says you’ve got the glow.”
“I think Ma’s the one with the glow.”
Ricky thought for a moment and then his face lit up. “Is Ma going to have a baby too?”
I had to bite my tongue. “No, Ricky, I just meant that she’s more excited than I am.”
“Yeah, she’s pretty excited,” Ricky said. He made an unpleasant face. “She cooked you some smelly stomach stuff. I think it’s going to be bad. I asked her why she made it, and she said that you had a craving for it.” He turned to Gus. “Oh hi, Gus. Ma says she loves you.”
“She did?”
“Uh-huh. She said she didn’t want Stephanie falling in love with a cop like she did . . . but then she met you.”
Really? I looked at Gus. I wasn’t sure which of us was going to cry first.
“Give me a hug,” Gus said and threw his arms around Ricky. My brother had yet to master the man hug. For him, it was one size fits all.
“Am I your brother yet?” Ricky asked.
Gus looked at me, and I could see that he was getting choked up. Gus was all man. He was six foot two inches tall and built like a commando. He could throw down with anyone on the street, but at this moment, his emotions were getting the better of him. I saw his eyes glaze over. “You are indeed,” he said.
I put my arms around the two of them. “This feels good,” I said. “This feels really good.”
Chapter Ten
As I said, Gus was all man. He polished off two portions of lasagna, a healthy slab of Ma’s roast, cheesecake, and still had enough energy to put the cherry on my sundae . . . or did I put my cherry on his sundae? Either way, it was a complete evening.
Even Gus has his limits. He was sound asleep next to me while I reviewed the case files we had received in Ambler’s office. It was a cop’s worst nightmare. It contained page after page of laboratory analysis. I was just a layperson, and after a while, graphs that compared haplogroups, chromosomal markers, and genealogical DNA gave me a headache. There was no real evidence to sink my teeth into, no crime scene, no witnesses, no nothing. The concrete tablet in the FBI’s possession had been delivered to FBI headquarters anonymously. An unidentified man wearing a hoodie and dark sunglasses had handed a kid twenty bucks to drop off an envelope at the FBI building.
I looked at the clock. It was only 10:00 p.m. I picked up the phone and dialed Ambler at home. “What’s going on, G-man?”
“Is that you, Chalice?”
“Sure as shooting. Did I disturb you?”
“No. I’m doing some paperwork and watching TV.”
“Mission Impossible?”
“Uh no.”
Really? No? Ambler was in all likelihood the world’s greatest fan of the original Mission Impossible TV show. I think he slept in Jim Phelps jammies. “I can’t believe it. What are you watching?”
“I’m embarrassed to tell you.”
“Aw, come on.”
“It’s that important for you to know?”
“Pretty please.”
“I’m watching MANswers on Spike TV.”
MANswers is a men’s-interests TV Show. They ask questions like: what is the best day of the year to get lucky, and which women are easier, redheads or blondes? Scantily clad women act out the answers by performing skits—the dramatizations incorporate a lot of giggling. I don’t see the show winning any kind of award, but I understood why it was popular with the gents. Ambler had no reason to be embarrassed, but I wasn’t surprised that he was. He had been like a second father to me. The idea of him watching mindless bimbo TV . . . well, I guess there was this certain level of expectation about how a father figure should behave. It didn’t matter to me because Ambler was a quality guy. We all have needs, right? “That’s okay, I’ve watched The Green Lantern at least ten times. I can’t get enough of Ryan Reynolds in that skin-tight plasma suit. Who am I to judge?”
“Where’s Lido?”
“I’m looking at his chiseled body right now. He’s out for the count. Say, does that man show have any ideas about this case because I sure don’t? When will we have forensics back on John Doe?”
“They haven’t been able to start. The crime lab is warming the body slowly so that it doesn’t decompose and become a hundred and fifty pounds of Jell-O. We may get some information back tomorrow.”
“You don’t give a girl much to work with—a chunk of concrete and a stack of DNA studies won’t solve a case like this.”
“I never said it was going to be easy. Like I said, we should know more tomorrow. I got you out of the office, didn’t I?”
“Yes, and I’m eternally grateful. We still have to find out who killed this distant relative of Aaron and Moses, and this morning’s victim. If the perp fashioned these mosaic medallions, he may be an ar
tisan or craftsman of some sort.”
Gus stirred. “Who are you talking to?” he said in an adorable sleepy voice.
“I’m discussing the case with Ambler.”
“Oh. Tell him I said hi.” He began to snore within seconds.
“I’m going back to Kowsky Plaza in the morning. Maybe I’ll get a spark of genius. Call me if the lab finds anything useful.”
“You’ll be the first to know. Goodnight, Stephanie.”
I was about to say goodnight when a meddling idea popped into my head. “Hey, Herb, why don’t you have dinner with Agent Banks?”
“Marjorie? Would you please stop playing matchmaker.”
“I don’t know . . . she’s awfully sweet. I can definitely see her in the role of Mrs. Herbert Ambler. It beats watching Bimbo Answers on the Shower Material Network.”
“Shouldn’t you be reading up on the next trimester or something? Same old Stephanie Chalice, you just never quit. How would it look for me to be dating a subordinate? I just got the job.”
I think he likes her. I didn’t want to push too hard. The relationship was brand new. Only time will tell. “Goodnight, old friend. Sweet dreams.”
Chapter Eleven
Anya Kozakova’s eyes were red while she banged away on the computer keyboard late into the night. Her apartment was swelteringly hot from too much steam heat, and her neighbors were having sex for the third time that evening.
“Animals,” she screamed in her heavy Russian accent. “Practice some self-control.”
She worked at a long table with computers and processing devices from end to end—when all of the equipment was running, it threw off enough energy to heat a North Sea oil rig. To make matters worse, the old radiator beneath the table whistled like a teakettle, and the shutoff valve had been broken off. It was in the low forties outside, but the temperature in her apartment was over eighty. She kicked the radiator with her foot. “Such a waste of money,” she complained.
She entered a few final commands and then waited for the processor to catch up with her instructions. “Finished. Finally.” Her stomach rumbled. Her cotton blouse was unbuttoned. She looked down at her exposed midriff and saw her stomach muscles undulate. She stamped out her cigarette in an ashtray, walked over to the thirty-year-old Frigidaire refrigerator, and opened the door. A plate of cherry blintzes was covered with Saran Wrap. She picked one of them up with her hand and ate it while she walked around the small apartment. She was licking the sticky cherry filling off of her fingers when someone knocked on her door.
“Who the fuck is that?” She wondered if her neighbor was drunk enough to confront her, but then she heard two successive grunting sounds coming from their apartment, confirming that they were still in bed . . . or perhaps on the kitchen table.
She tied the bottom of her blouse into a knot to somewhat cover her bra. She unlocked the door and opened it without checking to see who was there.
Marat Vetrov stood on the other side of the door holding a paper bag. “You don’t ask who it is? What if I was here to rob you?”
“I’m not afraid. Besides, I can kick your ass.” Anya was a strong woman with muscular shoulders and arms.
“You look very intimidating with jelly on your face.” Vetrov was a giant. He was thick and round. His face was covered with black stubble. His accent was heavy Russian, like Kozakova’s.
“So?”
“You’re eating week-old blintzes?” he said.
“What’s wrong with them?”
“Yeech.” He made a sour face. “You’re going to kill yourself with the shit you eat. You don’t know how to cook?” He pushed past her and set the paper bag down on the kitchen table. “Pastrami sandwiches. You think you can make some coffee?” The sounds coming from her neighbor’s apartment grew louder. “What the hell is that? The Russian fleet is in?”
“They fuck all day and night. I think they’re taking some kind of love potion. I’ve never heard anything like it.” Kozakova locked the door and turned toward Vetrov. She rubbed her eyes. The knot at the bottom of her blouse opened, revealing her bra and ample cleavage.
Vetrov winked at her. “It doesn’t give you ideas?”
“I’m writing computer code at two o’clock in the morning. You think this makes me think of sex?”
“Apparently nothing makes you think of sex. You exercise and you write computer code. As far as I’ve seen, you have no other interests.”
“I’m disciplined.” She began to re-tie the knot in her blouse and then stopped. “I’m not worried about being modest. It’s too hot in here. The landlord is an idiot—the heat is on twenty-four hours a day.” She took two glasses out of the kitchen cabinet and filled them with instant coffee and hot tap water.
“You have to boil it, moron,” Vetrov said in disgust. He spilled the two glasses of coffee into the sink. “Let me do it. Eat your sandwich. I just came from the all-night deli; it’s still warm.”
Kozakova sat down without hesitation. She had the sandwich unwrapped and in her mouth in seconds. “You’re a good friend, Marat,” she said while she chewed. “Don’t think for a moment that we’re going to bed. I’m too tired.” The volume of her neighbor’s love noises had built to an earsplitting crescendo. “I’ve got to find a new apartment.”
“How’s the pastrami?”
“Stringy, but tasty.”
Vetrov opened the refrigerator. He examined the plate of blintzes and then threw them into the trash. “You’re welcome.”
Kozakova heard the sound of something falling into the trashcan, but wasn’t paying attention. She was thinking about the program she had just written and was relieved to be finished with illegal work. “For what?” She finally turned and looked into the trashcan. “You threw out the blintzes? I just had one—they’re still good.”
“You’re hopeless.” He stared at the dented saucepan he was going to use to boil water. “I don’t have the patience for this. Have you got some vodka?”
“Vodka I have.” She stood and walked to the cabinet. She returned with a full bottle of Putinka Vodka.
Vetrov’s eyes sparkled. “Putinka? Very nice. Where did you get that?”
“I buy it online. I can’t drink the crap they sell in the American liquor stores.” Kozakova broke the seal and poured half a glass for each of them. She lifted her glass and toasted, “Budem zdorovy.”
“Yes, he concurred. “Good health.” He took a big swallow and savored the vodka as it coated his tongue and ran down his throat. “This is heaven. It’s expensive?”
“Expensive? No. It’s half the price of that goose shit everyone else drinks.”
“So what were you working on?”
“Security codes.”
“What kind of security codes?”
“Better you don’t know.”
“You’re such a bitch. Who brings you meals when you’re locked away in your apartment like a slave all night?”
Kozakova gnawed through the pastrami sandwich as if it were kindling being fed through a wood chipper. She looked at him pointedly. “If I don’t tell you, it’s for your own good.”
“Yeah, fuck you, Anya.”
She finished the last bite of her sandwich and drained the contents of her glass. “Don’t make such a sad face. I changed my mind; I’ll give you sex.” She stood and walked behind Vetrov. She caressed his neck with her long fingernails. “You showered today?”
He cursed her with his eyes. “Of course I showered. You think I’m an animal?”
“Give me a minute, sexy man, I’ll go wash up.”
Vetrov waited until he heard the bathroom door close before he jumped out his chair. The computer screen was still filled with code. He inserted a flash drive into the USB port and copied Kozakova’s program. He was not her intellectual equal, but like her, he was an engineer. Alone, back in the solitude of his apartment, he would be able to decipher her genius and make it work to his advantage. He withdrew the flash drive just as the bathroom door latch clicke
d open.
“I’m ready,” Kozakova called to him. “Come into the bedroom, Marat, and bring the vodka.”
He slipped the flash drive into his back pocket and buttoned it for good measure. He picked up the vodka bottle and took another drink. He felt himself stir as he swaggered toward her bedroom.
Chapter Twelve
I woke up in a great mood. I was happy. As was recently the case, I was ravenous. Brilliant sunshine streamed through the window, and my lover was lying next to me in bed. The air was filled with the wonderful aroma of Ma’s sauce. They’re not kidding about the appetite thing. I was in my fourth month, and my hormones were out of control. I felt as if I could eat twenty-four hours a day. I still could not understand why I didn’t weigh three hundred pounds. God is good, my friends. God is good.
It dawned on me (right after I drooled from the aroma of Ma’s sauce) that I didn’t live at home with my mother any longer. Ma’s sauce had an incredible bouquet. I can still remember standing in the kitchen as a child and marveling at the incredible food that she was preparing. It was impossible to forget.
But if Ma wasn’t in the kitchen, who was?
I pulled back the sheets. “Huh?” I was wearing a red apron and . . . well, that was about it. I looked around for my slippers, but they were missing. In their place was a pair of cherry red pumps. This was not a modest pair of shoes. They had platforms and spike heels. They were man-killer shoes, the kind a woman wore when she had romance on her mind. I checked the label—they were Manolo Blahnicks. Wow, this really was an outstanding morning.
I slipped into them and stood up. I examined myself in the mirror. The apron covered my baby bump, but boobs and ass were poking out everywhere. I checked to make sure that Gus was still asleep. He was. Idiot, I thought, do you have any idea what you’re missing? Gus was definitely going to be mad when he learned what he had missed. I was dressed for one thing and one thing only, but as mentioned, the Hunger God was in command, so instead of jumping on Gus and riding him like a thoroughbred at the Belmont Stakes, I spun on those spike heels and made a beeline for the kitchen.
Our Honored Dead (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 4) Page 4