Unmarked Man

by Darlene Scalera

  CISSY WAS SITTING at a red light when her purse on the passenger seat rang. She fumbled inside it, pulled out her cell phone.

  “Cissy Spagnola.”

  “Go home.”

  “I am home.” Her response surprised her as much as the threatening voice on the other end. “Who is this?”

  The line went dead. She listened to the silence while her mind worked, trying to place the voice that thought it could push her around. It had been muffled, purposely disguised. She tossed the cell on top of her purse. The light turned green. As she pressed on the gas, her phone rang again. She grabbed it greedily.

  “Listen, peckerhead—” Whoever it was wasn’t getting a second chance to scare the pants off her.

  “Talking on a handheld cell phone while driving in this state is illegal.”

  Nick. Who had used different tactics to get her pants off her.

  She glanced in the rearview mirror for a department vehicle, but saw nothing. “How do you know I’m even driving?”

  “Hang up and pull over.”

  She still hadn’t adjusted to Nick’s voice, real, growling and calling up images she preferred to shred. “Are you tailing me?” That hum had to be in her cell phone. A pelvis couldn’t purr like that.

  “Don’t even attempt lingo.” She heard his disgust.

  “I don’t see a police car.”

  “The light you’re heading for just turned red.”

  She shifted her gaze, slammed on the brake. “I still don’t see a police car,” she argued, peering again in the mirror. “It wouldn’t be the first time you lied to me.”

  A Harley-Davidson motorcycle pulled up on her driver’s side. The rider wore a button-down shirt and tie, tailored pants and a black helmet. He turned his head, his face covered by full visor. He twisted the accelerator handle. The engine roared. Cissy couldn’t see the driver’s face but she knew beneath that opaque Plexiglas, he was smiling. Manopause.

  The sun flashed off the bike’s chrome, polished to perfection with muscle and love. A metallic gleam moved, lifted, aimed. Cissy stared almost in fascination. A tidy little gun pointed at her forehead. Her brows pulled together, asking that gunbarrel’s black hole, “What the—?” She twisted the wheel and drove onto the sidewalk, beeping her horn as pedestrians scattered and swore at her in curses she’d learned in childhood. From her phone thrown on the seat, she heard Nick screaming a similar litany.

  “Oh yeah,” she yelled above her horn and wheels squealing. “At least now you can’t arrest me for talking on my cell phone, can you?” She veered into Maiden at the corner, the street angling toward the preserve. Her lane was blocked by a double-parked Acura. A garbage truck took up the opposite lane. Cissy glanced wildly at the sidewalk. A woman was pushing a baby carriage, the heat and the hill making her face shine.

  Cissy leaned on the horn. The uniformed man slinging the trashcans into the truck’s jaws gave her the finger. She looked in the rearview mirror, saw the cycle, its faceless driver. The motorcycle pulled up flush at the driver’s door. The metallic length throwing rainbows in the high heat, aimed at her. She pressed on the gas, shot for the slender space between the Acura and the garbage truck, knew she’d never make it. She held the gas pedal to the floor. “C’mon, Cherry,” she prayed. “Make Mama proud.”

  She watched the Acura’s driver’s door opening as if in slow motion, one stockinged leg in heels stretching out. “No,” she screamed, leaning on the horn. She slammed on the brake, wished she could close her eyes. The trash men were standing around, watching as if on afternoon break. The leg, so lovely it only pissed Cissy off more, jerked back. She heard a thud as she was thrown against the seat. Metal screamed as the Acura’s door was ripped off its hinges. It flew up into the air as if celebrating freedom only to fall, bounce on the asphalt like a pitched penny. God, she hated driving.

  She glanced in the rearview mirror to see the motorcycle corner into a side alley. Three-L-Z was all she got on the plate. A dark unmarked sedan, its headlights flashing, rounded the opposite corner.

  She grabbed her cell phone. “Hey, what happened to black and white? Blue and yellow? Big, bold letters, City Police?”

  As if in answer, a black-and-white patrol car turned in from the other corner.

  “Pull over, Cissy.”

  “With pleasure.”

  She pulled up to the curb behind a vintage VW Beetle, watched Nick get out of the car and come toward her. Over the years she’d wondered if she might have exaggerated his handsomeness, his raw energy. She hadn’t. Now with a gun strapped to his side, the man knew no mercy.

  The luckily saved leg in the Acura had been joined by another that went all the way up to an indecently short skirt, a shirt with shoestring straps and a mane of bottle-blond hair. Another patrol car pulled up at the opposite end to block off the street. Two uniformed men directed traffic. Another two followed Nick to the Acura. Hot Legs was pacing back and forth, gesturing at the empty space where the door had been. The garbage men who had raced to her side, gallant knights smelling of sweat and refuse, gathered round her, offering comfort. Nick stopped, must have said something reassuring or sexy, because Hot Legs went still a moment, tossed her obviously dyed tresses and smiled up at him, all teeth and mouth. The garbage men got their money’s worth. The woman was still all teeth as Nick nodded to the two other policemen and headed toward the Thunderbird.

  Cissy gazed straight ahead, her hands sweaty, gripping the steering wheel until the tap on the windshield.

  She turned, coming face-to-face with Nick Fiore for the second time that day and knowing she’d never get used to the sensation.

  “Driver’s license and registration.”

  “You’re playing with me, aren’t you?”

  His stoic silence told her nothing.

  “Why are you hanging around harassing innocent citizens anyway?”

  His eyebrows lifted on “innocent.”

  “That guy. That slimeball on the motorcycle. He had a gun and he was about to use me for target practice. Didn’t you see that?”

  “I was busy watching you tear up city property and terrorize pedestrians.”

  “He had a gun.”

  He studied her as if gauging her sanity.

  “He was going to shoot me.”

  He looked down at her, the black in his eyes darker than she remembered. She didn’t realize she was trembling until he touched her upper arm. She jerked away.

  “I’m telling you, there’s an insane businessman on a bike running around this city, and he’s got a bullet with my name on it.”

  He turned and went back to his vehicle.

  “Hey!” She jumped out of the car, slammed the door hard enough to make Cherry’s bones rattle.

  “We’ll need your information, ma’am,” the uniformed cop standing beside Hot Legs noted as Cissy marched by.

  “And insurance policy number,” the blonde added.

  Cissy ignored them both and headed toward the sedan. It swerved to miss her and sped off in the direction the motorcycle had headed.

  The patrol officer came up beside her. “License and registration, ma’am.”

  The sedan disappeared. Cissy stared after it as helpless as when a gun had been aimed at her head.

  “BLACK HARLEY LAST SEEN heading northbound down Glen. Driver five-ten, 160 pounds, business clothing, black helmet with tinted full-face front visor. May be armed.”

  Too much time had passed. A motorcycle was easily slipped into a side alley or a parking garage. The gunman could be strolling the street already, blending with the lunch-hour crowd, or within minutes he could have exchanged the motorcycle for something four-wheeled and more respectable. Businessmen clandestinely meeting in billiard halls; a man in a suit chases down a car in broad daylight. The moves were getting bolder—an indication the bad guys were getting desperate. And when things got desperate, people died.

  Nick slammed his fist against the steering wheel. Fists. Just like his old man. Sometimes it wa
s all he knew. A red rage he had fought his whole life to control. In the choice of a profession that demanded restraint, cautious use of power. In the choice of a personal life that allowed no one to get too close.

  He hadn’t even seen a gun. He had been too focused on Cissy. The girl had rattled him, taken him off his game. He didn’t like it.

  One shot, and Cissy could have been lying in the street right now. Dead. His fist slammed the wheel.

  CISSY WAS AT NICK’S SIDE before he could open the door.

  “Did you get a license plate?” Nick asked her.

  “You lost him?” He’d left her behind, and she didn’t like it.

  “A motorcycle is easy to get rid of, replace with something else. Patrols are on the lookout.”

  “I caught some of the plate. Three-L-Z.”

  “Partial plate three, L as in lion, Z as in zebra,” Nick called in. “Again, suspect possibly armed.”

  “No ‘possibly’ about it,” Cissy protested. “The scumbag is packing.”

  A thin vein popped out on Nick’s temple. He got out of the car. He stood a head and a half taller than her and was probably double her weight. Okay, one and one-half times her weight. With a hard exhale communicating she was peeved, she straightened to her full five foot four inches.

  “Why would a businessman on a black Harley want to kill you, Cissy?”

  She put one hand on her hip, cocked it as she took a step toward him to let him know she wasn’t going to be intimidated. Attracted, yeah. Purring like the little engine that could. But badge and big, beautiful body aside, Nick Fiore wasn’t going to tell her what to do. She’d gotten careless once, let a man try to push her around. It wouldn’t happen again. “You’re the cop. You tell me.”

  “Maybe someone besides me didn’t like the fact you went down to Mother’s and started asking questions.”

  “My mother and sister are missing. I’m not going to sit around a motel room.”

  Nick sighed, rubbed one side of his head.

  She smiled. “You still do that, huh?”

  “What?”

  “Rub the side of your head when you’re frustrated.”

  “You’ve seen this move before?”

  “I’ve seen all your moves, Fiore.”

  He broke out into the slow-coming grin that was move numero uno in Cissy’s book.

  “Somebody did call me after I left Mother’s,” she said before any more moves surfaced, and she could no longer think straight. “The one you called to harass me about. The voice was deliberately disguised.”

  “What’d it say?”

  “‘Go home.’”

  “Not exactly a warm welcome back, is it?”

  “I didn’t expect a party.”

  They stood, shoulders set, stance ready to attack. To an outsider, from the firm mouths, the thrust of their chests, they could be enemies. But in their locked gazes, they were allies.

  He nodded toward the blonde and the patrol officers. “They get everything they need?”

  “I was on my way to look for the insurance cards when you pulled in.”

  They started toward the others.

  “Look. Look at this car.” Hot Legs had worked herself into a lather.

  “I’m sorry,” Cissy offered.

  “I could’ve been killed.”

  “Me, too,” Cissy said.

  Hot Legs gave a huff.

  “We’ll need your license and proof of insurance, ma’am,” the uniformed policeman told her.

  “I hope you have good coverage,” Hot Legs let her know.

  “Isn’t double parking illegal?” Cissy wondered aloud. She headed toward Cherry, praying the insurance cards were in the car somewhere.

  The Thunderbird’s headlight was shattered, the metal around it wrinkled, paint scraped off the side. She patted the car’s hood like an old friend. “We’re not having a good day, are we?”

  She opened the passenger-side door and slid in, throwing her purse onto the driver’s seat. She clicked open the glove compartment, shuffled through packs of matches, odd pens, a compact, a map folded wrong, a coupon for a free cocktail on Ladies’ Night at the Hideaway. A half-full bottle of nail polish rolled out as she dug deep. Beneath a Garth Brooks CD, she found a plastic orange sleeve, the insurance company’s business card tucked in its front and the insurance cards inside. She resisted the urge to lay a big wet one on the slick orange cover. She shoved the cards into her purse, crammed everything else back into the glove box and closed it. She grabbed her purse and was sliding out when she saw the dark color oozing onto the floor. The nail polish’s cap must have been loosened from the fall. Polish was leaking onto the carpet.

  “Oh, hell.” She slammed her purse on the seat, grabbed several napkins out of the glove compartment and threw them on the wet spot. She grabbed another handful of napkins, slid out, got on her knees and leaned in to sop up the spill.

  “Problem?” Nick asked behind her.

  “A bottle of nail polish leaked all over the floor. I’ve got most of the color wiped up, although at this point, it doesn’t seem—” She stopped as, stuffed beneath the passenger seat, she saw two neatly banded stacks of cash.

  She jerked upright, banging her head on the open glove compartment. A hand reached over her shoulder. She gave a start.

  “I’ll take care of those,” Nick said.

  She looked down at the napkins wadded in her fist, plopped them into Nick’s palm while trying to understand the fact that a couple of substantial bundles of cash were crammed beneath the seat beside her.

  “You okay?”

  “Sure, sure.” She pushed herself up, brushed off her shorts. Nick studied her. Trained to suspect.

  “That stuff, whoa, the smell made me a little dizzy.” She fumbled in her purse, avoiding Nick’s study. “I found the insurance cards. Ta-dum.” She brandished them out of her bag.

  He pitched the napkins into a trash can on the sidewalk, reached for the insurance cards. He motioned for the other cop to come over. “I need your driver’s license, too.”

  She whipped out her wallet, slid out her license and handed it to him.

  He studied the card, shook his head.

  “Yes, I know. The perm was a mistake.”

  He looked at her. “This license expired seven months ago.”

  “No way.” She grabbed the card out of his hand, read the date. “Well, obviously somebody forgot to send me a renewal. Not that it matters much. I never drive. Owning a car in the city is only a grand theft waiting to happen.”

  “You were driving today.” He sighed. “Come on.”

  “Come on where?”

  “It’s illegal to drive without a license.”

  “I’ll go right to the DMV and straighten this all out. And I’ll take the bus.”

  “You were driving illegally and hit a parked car.”

  “Double-parked,” she corrected.

  His gaze stayed steady on her. “People willingly give you their hard-earned money?”

  Not anymore. But only she and the washed-up firm of Banes Brokerage knew that. She resisted the urge to retort “The city legally gave you a gun?” Whether it was Nick Fiore or not, antagonizing a member of the local law enforcement would not be the smoothest move she’d made in the past week.

  “Let’s go, Spagnola.”

  “What about the car?” And the twin stacks of cash beneath the front seat?

  “It’ll be towed.”

  “What? You think I’m stupid?”

  He tipped a corner of his mouth. Move twenty-three, if Cissy remembered right.

  “I know the routine. Those guys court the cops, then charge triple to the poor saps who get towed.”

  “Someone might have tried to take you out during their lunch break and you’re worried about a trumped-up towing charge?”

  No, she was worried about her mother, her sister, threatening phone calls, a motorcycle-riding mystery man with a gun, and now wads of cash stuffed under the front seat. But unt
il she knew more, she preferred to keep this latest discovery to herself.

  Nick massaged the back of his neck. “Give me the keys. I’ll have one of the officers drive it over to my garage and tell the owner I’ll be over later to talk to him. In the meantime, I’ll drop you off at the DMV. Considering the circumstances, I’ll overlook the fines for the expired license, but I’m not letting you behind the wheel again until I have proof you’re legal.”

  Nick’s solution was too reasonable to protest. Still, as he started toward the others, she stayed rooted while her mind worked overtime to find an excuse. He glanced over his shoulder, saw she wasn’t following.

  He took a long breath. “I do have handcuffs.”

  “Are you trying to ask me out on a date?”

  His eyes warned her she was walking a fine line.

  “You were more fun before you became a cop.”

  Now he smiled. “You were more fun before I became a cop, too.”

  He’d won. And he knew it.

  “Just let me check that spill, see if I can blot up a little more Flamboyant Fuchsia.” She grabbed napkins out of the glove compartment and knelt down, setting her handbag on the floor beside the dried stain. She patted the floor a few times, then, making sure her body blocked Nick’s view, she darted her hand under the seat, scooped one stack, then the other into her purse. Thank God she had always opted for small suitcases instead of the envelope-sized clutches so chic nowadays. She snapped her purse shut and stood.

  “Ready?” Nick asked behind her.

  She had the cash. Now all she had to do was find her mother and her sister and stay one step ahead of scumbags with a fondness for motorcycles and shiny guns. Was that what her mother and sister were doing? Staying one step ahead of someone who wanted them dead? Had they succeeded? Her legs felt suddenly unsteady. She needed something to lean on.