Bootscootin' and Cozy Cash Mysteries Boxed Set (Books 1-6)

by Scott, D. D.

  So yeah. Being a People’s Plump Little Princess ain’t gonna be no picnic, especially when you’re married to the mob.

  Speaking of which, I was not only a Princess-in-training, but a Mob Wives soon-to-be inductee too.

  Damn! I have a lot to learn.

  I was in for a ton of shock-and-awe from now on.

  In the mean time, Roman, Granny V and R wanted us to focus on appearing down-to-earth and do things that were in a giving-back nature.

  Well, how the hell do you do that when you’re being chased down by the Italian Mafiaso?

  Roman and I were planning on giving it back all right.

  Those assholes had killed Roman’s grandfather! There were definitely plans in the works to give that back!

  We had a lot more in mind, however, than planting trees and paying respects at memorials.

  We planned on having to dig a few new graves…then bury some turds in ‘em.

  I was so lost in my conundrum of new worlds, not until Roman squeezed one of my hands between his warm fingers did I realize he’d taken a seat in the chaise lounge next to mine around the edge of Le SirenMuse’s lantern-lit pool.

  I took a deep breath, letting the incredible smells of the pool’s landscaping settle my troubled soul.

  “What is that incredible scent?”

  “That’s the frangipani. They’re most fragrant at night to lure sphinx moths to pollinate them.”

  “Sphinx moths, huh?” I asked, wishing I could be a sphinx and disappear or at least disguise myself. “If only that luscious scent could be bottled.”

  Roman laughed his super-seductive, deep-throated bellow that, every time, made me want to take him to bed.

  “And that would be funny how?”

  “As a matter of fact, we do bottle it. Le SirenMuse has its own perfumer and fragrances, full of frangipani.”

  “Why does that not surprise me?”

  “I’ll have a bottle delivered to our suite.”

  For such an oasis of peace and silence, I couldn’t believe this place was a safe house for the mob.

  On nights like this, sitting beneath the canopies of the lemon trees, with gorgeous copper and brass, candle-lit lanterns surrounding the pool, I gazed up into the seaside hills dotted with both pale and bold yellows of other Positano homes and vacation villas. My soul was filled with nothing but the warm light and white-washed serenity of these sanctuaries nestled into the hills of The Bay.

  “Pretty amazing at night, isn’t it?” Roman asked, looking more relaxed and at home than I’d ever seen him.

  “It’s amazing twenty-four-seven. But, yeah, at night, it’s even better,” I said, looking over my shoulder and watching him as he watched the stars begin to brighten in the clear, darkening skies.

  “You feel the best when you’re here, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I do. This is home to me. All of my fondest memories have been made here at Le SirenMuse.”

  “I can certainly see why. I know I’ve never been to a more beautiful place.”

  “I’m glad you’re here with me,” he said, momentarily choosing me over the stars and looking straight into my eyes. “Thank you, Zoey. For all of this. And if it’s ever too much…”

  “You’re welcome,” I said then couldn’t help allowing a small giggle to launch from my throat.

  “Now it’s my turn, I guess. Why would that be funny?” Roman asked as if I’d hurt the feelings of the little boy inside him I suspected hadn’t had much time to just be a kid.

  “Everything about this is way over-the-top too much. But really? What plus-sized chick like me gets the opportunity to be a real-life Bond Girl? Oh. And a real-life princess too?”

  “So you’re using me? Is that it?” He asked, the hurt gone and replaced by his sexy, dark humor.

  “You could say that. Just like you’re using me.”

  “Cheers to that,” he said, lifting his glass full of limoncello to mine.

  “Being used never felt so good. For now,” I said, clinking my glass to his.

  The warmth of the lemon liquor and a gorgeous night under the stars in Positano, with the prince of my wildest dreams at my side, was damn good therapy.

  “And by the way, you’re one gorgeous Bond Chick and Princess-in-the-making,” Roman said, interrupting my therapy session.

  But cheers to those kinda interruptions!

  Chapter Ten

  Le SirenMuse’s pool still looks just as beautiful in the day-time, but isn’t quite as relaxing or romantic when you’re prince has been replaced by a pot-bellied pig.

  It was me and Vinnie this mornin’…poolside.

  And I don’t know which was worse, being kissed by Granny V’s botoxed lips or Vinnie’s wet snout.

  But damn! Vinnie just loved kissin’ on me. I could already tell this little fella had never lacked for love or attention.

  With my laptop fired-up and ready to buzz me into pig central, I planned on learning as much as I could about caring for Vitto’s pride and joy.

  Roman and I, along with Granny V and R, had been trying to think for a couple weeks now what it is that little Vinnie here was supposed to know. We kept playing Vitto’s final words over and over again, both in our heads and out loud too– “Vinnie knows. Vinnie knows.”

  So what exactly does a mini, Vietnamese pot-bellied pig know?

  At least I’d figured out he was Vietnamese and not Philippine or Portuguese.

  But what does this little dude know?

  I tossed him another celery stalk and noted he was making a sweet little ‘ouff’ noise, which supposedly means he’s happy. Should the squirt start throwing his head in a side-swiping motion or begin screaming at high volume, I should get the hell out of his way. According to my research, that behavior would indicate he’s one pissed off pig.

  Hmmm. And here I thought pigs just squealed. But apparently, they make a ton of different sounds that make up their own pig-speak language. Kinda like Pig Latin, I guess.

  I bookmarked a bunch of great sites for the care and maintenance of our new family pet, and then quickly switched over to studying-up on the clan of Ponzi-scheming turds we were hunting.

  Nothing like pot-bellied pigs and Ponzi-scheming turds to contemplate poolside, while basking under the warm Italian sun.

  I knew from my P.I. Training that, in order to catch criminals, you had to begin to think like ‘em. And that was a long way from my North Pole childhood. But yeah, not so far away, at all, from my Hollywood clientele.

  Where there were obscene amounts of cash flowing in cozy bundles and offshore bank accounts, there was bound to be trouble. And to sniff out that trouble, you simply followed the money and the twisted trails on which it traveled.

  Before diving into some of the notes Roman had left for me to review, I checked one last time on Vinnie.

  He’d already found and was busy rooting-in the new soil and grass playground Roman and Granny V had ordered built for him.

  Good.

  Hearing nothing but sweet little ouffs coming from his play area, I relaxed, thinking perhaps Vinnie didn’t have that stubborn, pesky and persistent beggar issue a couple of the pigs-as-pets websites had mentioned.

  Of course, by now, I was used to dealing with divas. So, if Vinnie turned out to be one too, I’d be an ace at handling his outbursts.

  If only I could toss my clients a celery stalk to shut ‘em up.

  ‘Course that would probably work on some of ‘em since they damn near starved themselves. Crackers and celery might just do the trick in Hollywood too. I made a mental note to start carrying treat bags for both Vinnie and my starlets.

  But what about Ponzi-scheming pigs like Bernie McCall and the mob bosses he’d screwed?

  What kind of treat bag did they require?

  Probably bags filled with the sweet allure of nothin’ but cash.

  Cozy cash, and lots of it, was their candy and positive reinforcement.

  And if you didn’t have it when they wanted it, or t
hey somehow felt you were responsible for them losing it, you ended-up like Roman’s Grandpa Vitto. Shot dead in the back room of your gelato shop.

  I shook my head, still unable at times to believe I’d used a hand-me-down Glock to take out a guy.

  But after several spa treatments later, at Granny V’s suggestion, and some long distance therapy sessions, by Skype, with my friend Jules’ Sex Therapist Aunt Tulip, I was beginning to wrap my mind around our little shoot-out.

  Okay, so Tulip’s expertise may not be exactly the specialty I needed help with, although I wasn’t getting any of that kinda action either, Tulip could help me deal with the action I was involved in.

  Tulip had helped me come to the conclusion that the world was a better place without another mafia turd clogging its pipes.

  Repeating that mantra, I sucked up my hesitation and hang-ups at becoming a mobster assassin and attempted to figure out who we should stalk, and take-out next.

  The first name on that ever-expanding list was Raj Kumartnam, a Sri Lankan native, Wall Street stock picker, who, no surprise here, also used McCall’s main banker from Vienna, Sonja Medici.

  Thanks to our Thug Guard Operations, we had Sonja still under the close surveillance of Ross Fox.

  Yeah, that Ross.

  Also known as my former worthless assistant who ended-up never actually being my assistant at all since he was one of Roman and R’s plants into my world. No wonder he sucked at fashion and handling my very needy clientele.

  Since Roman and Ross’ lipstick look-alike tubes weren’t actually lipstick, but rather one of Quartermaster R-designed lethal weapons, Ross, who I’d nicknamed ‘Little R’ didn’t know what to do with it.

  Little R was due to arrive at Le SirenMuse this afternoon for a Ross Report on dear old Sonja, and I couldn’t wait to see what he’d gotten to connect her to Raj Kumartnam. Whatever it is, it must be pretty important for Roman and R to have summoned him here. Very rarely, I was learning, were we all at the same place at the same time. That just made us way too big of a target.

  “So what have you learned so far?” Roman asked, pulling up a lounge chair next to mine, just in time to receive a rambunctious Vinnie in his lap.

  “I think he’s missed you,” I said, peering over the tops of my sunnies and taking in a pot-bellied pig’s version of ‘welcome home dad’.

  “Why don’t you smother me with kisses like that?” Roman asked, pushing Vinnie away, only for the love-sick pig to bound back up into his face and neck before rooting his snout deep into Roman’s throat.

  “At least he’s still ouffing,” I said, closing my laptop and enjoying the over joyous commotion of pig meets protector.

  “What the hell is ouffing?”

  “It’s that little sound he’s making while showin’ you the love. And from my research, you’d better hope that’s what we keep hearing.”

  “Oh yeah? What do we not want to hear?”

  But before I could answer him, Vinnie started screaming at dangerously high decibels and swishing his head back and forth like a crazed wildebeest.

  “I take it this would be one of the bad sounds?”

  Roman struggled to help Vinnie simmer down, but the poor in-a-snit swine was havin’ none of it.

  I quickly reached into my pool bag and took out the baggie full of grapes and raisins I’d borrowed from the Le SirenMuse kitchen. Borrowed wasn’t exactly the right term, as I’m fairly certain the cooks wouldn’t want back the forms these fruits would soon be in.

  “No, Vinnie. No.”

  Hearing my stern, disciplinary tone, Vinnie turned his snot-filled snout my way, saw the raisin I was holding out to him and immediately shut-up.

  “Good boy,” I said and popped the raisin into his open mouth.

  “Impressive, I think,” Roman said. “But I wonder what that was all about?”

  “Probably me,” Ross said, now standing next to Roman and I and blocking our Italian sunshine. “I don’t think he likes me all that much.”

  “You have the same effect on me,” I said, smiling my best eat-crap grin right square at the traitor.

  “Now now, Kids. Shouldn’t we all get along for Vinnie’s sake here?” Roman said, his patronizing tone grating on my nerves as much as it tickled my funny bone.

  And no, I was not about to admit that.

  “I know I may not have been the best styling assistant, but I’m about to win back your respect, Dahling,” Ross said, the Hollywood drama dripping from his voice damn near making me sick.

  “So tell us what you’ve got. I don’t want you here very long,” Roman said, looking over the gold rims of his aviators and I’m sure making sure his men were all in position if we should require their services.

  “Many of our Troubled Boy Raj’s clients lost a ton of money to McCall also. We’re talking too many of the 450 or so victims Judge Kin took into advisement while sentencing McCall.”

  “Keep talking. We’re all ears.” Roman said, letting Vinnie once more root into him, although he was finding comfort in his chest now, instead of his neck.

  What I wouldn’t give to be Vinnie right now.

  “If you’ll recall, the Judge sentenced McCall based on three things,” Little R began. “He wanted to send the strongest possible message of deterrence, to help the victims heal, and…”

  “Retribution,” I said, finishing for Ross which got me an atta girl, although a surprised one at that, from the pompous bonehead.

  “The Judge hoped he’d succeeded in retaining the victims’ trust in the American Justice System with the 150 year sentence, but it appears the victims were still very interested in the mob-style vengeance McCall and his attorney feared,” Little R said, obviously regaling in the fact this was all his scoop.

  “If it’s the mob’s vengeance they want, we can still provide that,” Roman said, his jaw rigid with a steel-reinforced determination.

  Who was I to argue with that?

  The only kind of justice system I was familiar with came from my North Pole upbringing, and these evil turds deserved much worse than coal in their stockings, or no toys at all this year for Christmas.

  “So you’re saying the victims are restless, and taking matters into their own hands ‘cause we’re not moving fast enough?” Roman asked.

  “Something like that,” Ross conceded, then hung his head and scuffed his hand-cobbled Italian loafers against imaginary pebbles around the pool.

  “I don’t believe in the American Justice System. But I do think I can make sure the judge’s goals are met. And met with a much more permanent solution than the 150 years McCall is serving.”

  I knew what Roman was getting at, because I’d done the homework he’d asked me to do.

  “The Judge said all the victims’ money is gone, but you don’t believe it is gone, do you?” I asked this, not sure how much either Roman or Ross would tell me, but willing to take in whatever additional scoop I could get.

  “That’s correct. It’s not gone,” Roman said, ruffling Vinnie’s ears with his strong, sun-kissed hands.

  “Then where is it?” I asked.

  Thinking I’d asked a pretty obvious and reasonable question.

  “Don’t know that, but Vinnie here does,” Roman said, while Vinnie licked his nose and ouffed some more.

  Vinnie knows. Vinnie knows. I replayed Vitto’s words in my mind.

  “So let me get this straight. Vinnie is gonna lead us to all the missing cash?”

  “You got any better ideas?” Ross asked, his disdain for, either me or Vinnie, quite apparent in his condescending tone.

  “As a matter of fact, I might,” I said, to which both Roman and Ross were silent while Vinnie’s ouffing ceased.

  Chapter Eleven

  I’ve spent a lot of time on “What If’s.”

  How?

  By reading a ton of Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum mystery novels.

  That fixation even earned me the nickname of Plum Puddin’ from Roman.

  Bu
t these days, I’m into reading all-things-John Locke and his Donovan Creed series. Those books rock with possibilities, causing my “What If” gamesmanship to ratchet up several levels.

  “So what if there was a way all of this money moving around could be coded, then recoded and coded again, making it hard, if not impossible, to follow?” I asked my more-than-captive audience.

  And boy was I tickled I now had all three boys’ attention.

  Roman and Ross remained silent.

  Vinnie had his snout wide-open as if he were amazed by my deductive reasoning skills too. ‘Course, perhaps he was panting. Do pigs pant? I’d have to look that up. But I did know they were extremely smart and could follow conversations. I thought Vinnie could definitely follow along better than Ross, which made me laugh all to myself.

  “So we’ve got scumbags like this Raj who are also in McCall and Sonja’s information network, right? And these schmucks pass all kinds of inside information to each other. In effect, they put themselves ahead of every day’s markets around the globe. In other words, they know before any given market opens, what’s going to be bought and sold that day,” I continued building my theory, loving that with each variable I added, a plan began to take shape.

  “You’re onto something here. These networks, made up of business school buddies, hedge fund managers, tech industry execs, banking execs and government players too, always make out millions of bucks ahead on every deal. Because they always know tomorrow’s news today, and that means big money,” Roman joined-in my reasoning.

  “So all we have to do is find out tomorrow’s news today, and we’ll be able to follow at least the roads the cash is travelling,” I said, knowing that at least Roman and Vinnie caught on because Roman was certainly smart enough and Vinnie was ouffing again like one happy, informed camper.

  “But, keep in mind, the news might not travel by road so to speak. In this part of the world, it could come by sea too,” Roman added.

  “Or by proprietary computer models on laptops tossed into countryside garbage cans,” I added, thrilled with the amazed look on Roman’s face.