“Do you want to wait in the car?” He was being gentle with her. She didn’t think she would cry until that moment.
She nodded, walked to the car while Nick met the others. They conferred for a moment at the door’s entrance, then followed Nick inside, except for a uniformed officer who came over to interview her. Cissy knew he was also there for her protection. She answered his questions. The motel manager came to the room in a sleeveless T-shirt, the elastic waistband of his cotton shorts stretched tight across his stomach. Another officer knocked on the other room doors, the occupants inside quickly losing the rumpled look of late night when they learned the reason for the disturbance. The attendants from the coroner’s office arrived. An empty stretcher was wheeled in, came back out with a bulky black body bag. Cissy pushed open the car door, dashed for the end of the building. At the corner, in the glow of the vending machines, she heaved. She was doubled over, panting, when Nick came up behind her.
She straightened. He put change into the machine, pushed a button, handed her a soda. She pressed the can to her forehead, the side of her neck. He bought another soda, popped it open, took a long drink, watching her.
“Well, there’s one question we don’t have to ask anymore.”
She opened the soda and took a drink, trying to get rid of the aftertaste in her mouth. “What’s that?”
“Where’s Phillip Lester?”
Chapter Seven
Nick lived on a side street several blocks from downtown in an area known for its trendy shops and funky bars. The buildings lining his street were architecturally impressive, many converted into townhouses, bright with summer flowers potted on their stoops or filling in the three-by-three foot plots behind black iron fences. Nick’s building was brick and black-shuttered with no flowers out front. His apartment was a one-bedroom walk-up on the third floor. The ceilings were high, the windows long. Furnishings were the male necessities—couch, recliner, dinette set, everything utilitarian and inexpensive. There were no doilies, matted prints or refrigerator magnets. His kitchen window looked out on the high towers of the projects six blocks away. The only exotic element was a huge fish tank against the living room wall. Cissy walked over to check out the colorful fish. She glanced at Nick over her shoulder.
He shrugged. “You don’t have to walk them.” He took out two beers from the refrigerator, a bag of chips from the cupboard. He was halfway to the living room when his cell phone rang.
Even with the buzz of the air conditioner Nick had cranked up to high as soon as they’d walked in, there was really no place in the apartment where Cissy couldn’t hear his voice. She stepped into the bathroom, ran the water in an attempt to give him privacy. Still she heard “Uh-huh, yup, okay.” Nick was a man of action, not words.
She tried not to listen. She was tempted to explore his medicine cabinet but wasn’t sure she was ready for what she would learn. Forgoing the spotted glass on the counter, she cupped her hands and drank straight from the faucet, her mouth as dry as the brown fields she’d passed this morning on the way to her mother’s house. She spit, the city water leaving a metallic taste in her mouth, wiped her hands on a towel flung over the top of the shower. Her nose and cheeks were slightly sunburned. Tomorrow they would turn brown, primed to wrinkle at an early age. Her hair was limp where sweat and fear had pasted it to her neck. She put the toilet seat and cover down and sat and waited for the call to be finished. Dirty towels were heaped in the corner near the hamper. An opened toothpaste tube lay on the sink counter, several smears of toothpaste in the basin. Cissy resisted the urge to pick up, wipe off. Instead she said, with too much endearment, “What a slob.”
When she heard nothing but silence for several minutes, she got up and came out of the bathroom, her hands damp.
“As I thought, Lester was killed much earlier, before the body was dumped in your room. They’re looking for Deed now.”
“They think he did it?”
“No evidence yet. They couldn’t find any prints, but Deed’s too smart for that anyway. He probably used Lester’s car and was returning from dropping off the body in the motel room when he ran into you. Forensics is going over the car and Lester’s house now hoping to find something. Lester wasn’t killed with a .45 though.”
“How do you know?”
“A .45 close range would have been messy. From the looks of Lester, it was a smaller caliber. A .22.”
“But why was the body put in my room?”
“If Deed did do it, he was told to by whoever he’s working for. And whoever that is, they want you out of the way. They’re being polite about it now, but patience isn’t a virtue with these people. Who knew you were staying there besides me?”
“I called my mother’s house again from the motel, trying to find Eddie, but all I got was the machine. I left my cell number again and the motel number.”
Nick moved toward the coffee table where he’d set down the beers and bag of chips. “If Eddie’s involved in anything, he’s only a small fish. Deed doesn’t work for small fish. More likely Eddie and Deed are working for the same boss.”
He popped open the beer, moved toward the recliner. Cissy saw her handbag, sitting where she’d dropped it in the chair’s seat. She started toward the chair but not before Nick picked up her purse. “Whoa.” He levered the purse up and down. “You’re going to get a hernia carrying this thing around.”
“Look at me. Just making myself at home. Dropping crap all over the place. I’m sorry.” She reached for the bag.
“What do you keep in here anyway?” Nick still tested the bag’s weight.
“Stacks of cash.” She told him the truth.
He smiled, handed her the purse. She sat on the couch, put the purse on the floor next to her feet, the cash that she thought was much more than “emergency money” resting on her ankle.
Nick took a smooth sip. “Women and their purses.”
“Men and their remote controls.”
He smiled the smile that had defined her puberty.
“So nobody at the motel saw anything?” She diverted his attention away from the subject of her purse, her own attention away from that smile.
“If they did, they’re not coming forward. The place was only about a quarter full.”
“What’ll happen when you find Deed?”
Nick leaned all the way back in the recliner. “We’ll bring him in, try to scare him if we don’t have anything, but Deed doesn’t scare easy. If we don’t have any proof, and he’s not biting, we’ll only be able to hold him until his lawyer shows up and lets the courts know we’ve got nothing.”
Cissy slumped back into the couch.
“Tomorrow I’ll find Eddie and have a little talk with him. I’ll also talk to Lester’s neighbors and coworkers, try to find a connection. A lead. Forget about it, Spagnola.”
Her face must have beamed interest.
“You will stay here.”
The man would never learn. “And do what?”
“Feed my fish.”
At least he didn’t threaten her with handcuffs again. They were making progress.
Nick sat up in the recliner, set his beer can on the coffee table, glanced at the other unopened can. “Can I get you something else? There’s some iced tea in there, and water.”
“No, I’m fine. I don’t want anything right now, thanks.”
Nick picked up his own can. “Is there anyone your mother was close to at the bar, outside the bar? Any other relatives?”
“Like I said, I haven’t been around much. My mother had one sister but she died about ten years ago. Cancer. My aunt had two sons. One lives in California, the other North Carolina. As far as I know she hasn’t heard from them except for Christmas cards.”
“It couldn’t hurt to give them a call,” Nick suggested.
“She did mention one woman now and then. She worked at the bar for a time but I don’t think she’s there anymore. Mama hadn’t mentioned her in a while. They used to go shopping, took a b
us trip once down to Atlantic City.”
“Remember her name?” He was all cop now and sexy as hell.
Cissy closed her eyes to concentrate and block out the appealing image of Nick. “I think it was something like Gina or Tina. Maybe Nina.” She opened her eyes. “If I heard it again, it would ring a bell.”
“I’ll ask at the bar tomorrow. See if anyone knows anything.” He set down his beer and stretched. Cissy watched the ripple of muscle, added it to her list of worries.
“You better get some sleep,” Nick advised. “I’ll take the couch. You can have the bed.”
“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll take the couch.”
“I’ll take the couch,” he said again as if the matter were settled.
“You’re bossy, Fiore.”
“Comes with the territory.” He picked up her small suitcase which he’d carried up from his car and walked into the bedroom. “You’ll have to leave the door open for the air-conditioning.”
Somehow the idea of an opened bedroom door in Nick Fiore’s apartment was unsettling. But it was either that or heat stroke. She wasn’t sure which was the most dangerous.
He brought out bedding for the couch. She took her suitcase and purse into his bedroom. From the suitcase, she got her toothbrush, dental floss, facial cleanser, toner, night cream, eye cream, lip balm and body lotion out of her suitcase. Gathering the various bottles and tubes in her arms, she went into the bathroom. She wasn’t sure if all these creams did diddly, but she was in her thirties now and like most things in her life, she couldn’t afford to take chances.
She brushed and cleansed and flossed and creamed, the routine providing a small measure of normalcy in a day that was anything but, and from the looks of it was only the beginning of a strange trip down memory and murder lane. She scooped up her toiletries, almost dropping them when she came out to find Nick in only his gym shorts and a body built by God and Nautilus. Nick’s left brow lifted as he looked at the variety of creams and lotions and Madison Avenue dreams in her arms. She let pass his smile that said, “Sucker,” as he slowly lifted his gaze to hers. Nor did she argue. He was more right than he probably realized. For all her cynical, streetwise pose, she fell too easily for false promises, a weakness that in the past had only led to disaster and sometimes, a black eye. She had to learn to be more careful. No matter the buzzing inside her and the man before her only gym shorts away from naked. Didn’t matter what side of the law he was on, Nick Fiore was trouble. And at the moment, her problem box was overflowing.
She dumped the bottles back into the suitcase.
“Will the television bother you?” Nick called from the other room. “They repeat the late-night news after Letterman.”
“No.” She doubted she would get much sleep tonight anyway. “In fact, I’ll watch it with you.” Insomnia. The curse of a conscience.
She went back into the living room, sat on the couch, fully dressed. Something about being in Nick’s apartment, never mind his bed, in nothing more than pajamas—granted, perfectly respectable cotton pj’s that covered all necessary areas—seemed wrong. Her Catholic nature was rising again.
“If you’re hungry or thirsty, there’s stuff in the refrigerator and cupboards,” Nick offered as he clicked the remote.
She shook her head, too keyed up to eat or drink. They watched a commercial for dog food in silence. A blond-bobbed anchorwoman with an earnest expression came on the screen. “Top stories tonight. Body found in barge.” The screen shot away to the port. As Nick collapsed the recliner again, Cissy wished she’d chosen the end of the sofa closer to him. With a promise “We’ll be back with the full details along with the day’s other top stories after this word from our sponsor,” the screen cut to a woman shaking clothes into a washing machine. A swear word involuntarily came out of Cissy’s mouth. Nick didn’t say a word. He got up, stood behind the sofa. She picked up a throw pillow propped against the couch’s arm and hugged it against her chest.
The news returned. “The Lady of Louisiana was docked yesterday morning in the city’s port on its way to Canada when workers started complaining of an odor aboard the ship. Local authorities were called in when further investigation revealed the source of the foul odor was a locked cargo trunk hidden in a section of the ship’s ceiling.”
The screen showed a trunk being pried open with crowbars. Cissy squeezed the pillow tighter.
“When authorities opened the trunk, they found the body of a dead man.”
Cissy let out a breath.
“Authorities have not released the victim’s name yet, but they did report the victim was a white male, late-twenties, approximately six feet, one hundred and ninety pounds with long blond hair. The victim had been shot once in the middle of the forehead.”
Cissy went cold all over.
“Agents estimate the body had been dead for about twenty-four hours. Based on a tip from an informant, Federal agents raided a sister ship of the Lady of Louisiana last month in New Orleans but no illegal contraband was found aboard the ship. The Lady of Louisiana is part of a network of ships used to transport cargo into Canada and into international waters.”
Cissy turned and looked at Nick. He was dialing the phone. “Got any identification on that body found in the port tonight?” he asked whoever picked up on the other end. “How ’bout the weapon?”
She got up, walked over to him. He started toward the bedroom, a closed door, a lowered voice. She clutched his arm, shook her head “no.” He stared straight at her as if sending her strength. “Tell them to check out a Canadian who worked the docks. Jacques Saint-Sault.”
She stared at Nick for several motionless seconds. He stared back, not letting her go. She walked to the couch, bent to pick up the pillow that had fallen from her lap when she stood, but as she leaned over, the dread claimed her so completely she feared she would keep going, sink into a boneless heap on the floor. She clutched the pillow, straightened with the will that had taken her far from her beginnings and brought her back again.
Nick sat down, fingers loosely laced, hands hanging between his spread knees in an almost Father Knows Best pose. “It’s a long shot, Cissy.”
Neither believed it. She looked into her ex-lover’s eyes, seeing the steely determination she wished for herself. “They’re dead, aren’t they?” she asked in a tinny tone. “My mother and sister. They’re dead.”
“We don’t know that. We’ve got no evidence. This could be something totally unrelated. The docks aren’t a playground. Right now we have an unidentified body on a barge. Nothing else.”
“What about the weapon?”
“They’re investigating.”
“My mother and sister are missing. Meanwhile, corpses are coming out of the woodwork.”
“Your mom and Jo Jo could be hiding. Maybe they’re involved somehow in whatever is going on. Maybe they know something, saw something. Maybe somebody warned them to lie low for a while because things were heating up.”
She wanted to believe him. “There was that one call from Jo Jo.”
“What about that phone call you got today?”
“‘Go home,’” Cissy remembered.
“You said the voice was disguised. Whoever it was didn’t want to be identified. Maybe your sister and mother can’t reach you. It’s too risky, so they had someone else contact you, warn you.”
“Scare me is more like it.”
“Maybe your mother and Jo Jo are trying to get you out of town. Afraid you might get hurt.”
“Well, somebody sure as hell doesn’t want me around. The corpse-a-gram in my motel room made that clear.”
“Maybe whoever it is decided you needed something a little more effective than a phone call.”
“At least Phil Lester won’t be waving a gun at me in noontime traffic anymore, will he?”
Nick didn’t answer. She studied his face.
“You don’t think it wasn’t Lester on that bike today, do you?”
“M
y hunch is Lester was dead by that time.”
A shiver went through her.
Nick stood. “You need some sleep.”
“You’re right.” She rose, although she knew she would be awake for many hours. She had to brush by him in the narrow gap between the couch and the chair to get into the bedroom. That awkward moment came when they were chest to chest, the pose that preludes a kiss. He looked into her eyes, his expression never giving an inch but his voice tame when he said, “If you need anything, I’ll be right here. Just yell.”
He wasn’t being suggestive. That scared her even more. Kindness could do things like that to her.
“Thanks, but I think I’m all set. I’ll see you in the morning.” She walked into the bedroom, leaving the door open as instructed, the light from the other room sufficient enough to see. The bed was unmade. This man needed a mother or a wife or a maid. She smoothed out the bottom sheet’s wrinkles and crawled under the top sheet. She wiggled out of her shorts, dropped them on the floor. She unsnapped her bra, stretched her arms through the sleeves of her T-shirt to slide her bra off her arms. She lay in her ex-lover’s bed in her shirt and underwear and a blanket of fear.
SHE WAS AWAKE when she heard him get up. The sounds in the kitchen signaled he was preparing coffee. It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten up. Nor was it the first time she had awakened. He was a restless sleeper, getting up several times during the long night. She had seen him in the refrigerator’s light. He would open and close the refrigerator door without removing anything. He’d cross to the window, the towers of the projects forming grids of light and dark across the glass. He’d move back to the recliner, click on the television, mute the sound, watch the silent pictures. He switched the channels frequently, old black-and-white movies, reruns of nineties sitcoms, infomercials. A visual lullaby until she herself had fallen into a fitful sleep, her dream images as hectic and disjointed as the changing pictures on the television screen. The next time she woke, the television was still on and Nick was stretched out in the recliner, but his snores joined the other night noises. She’d listened to the wheeze and wind of his breath telling her she wasn’t alone.
Unmarked Man Page 8