What the hell had I been thinking?
Eleven
I cradled a cup of hot water between my hands and watched dawn arrive, all pink-streaked and full of promise. No nightmares, no visions, but the diagram sitting on my night table weighed heavy. Well, not the diagram per se. It was really more about explaining my clandestine B and E to Violet and Adam that weighed. And the diagram was evidence, illegal evidence, but still not something I could hide.
And then there was the fight with Mitch.
It wasn’t that I intended to spend the morning hiding in bed, but after my pre-dawn wake up, I went back to bed and buried under the covers, ignoring the blast of the alarm when it went off several hours later. No clients were scheduled, so why not pamper myself with a lazy morning?
An excellent plan, until someone pounded on my front door. For a solid five minutes.
I fumbled into my robe and worked up a good rant to toss at Violet. Who else would be stubborn enough to wait me out when it was obvious I didn’t want company?
Mitchell Hunt stood on my porch with a brightly colored bunch of gerbera daisies in one hand and a tray with two Starbucks cups in the other. Cinnamon lattes. The fragrance was unmistakable and my taste buds tingled with lust, but it was Mitch’s face that held my attention—the angry cut and the bruise, now rimmed in pale yellow, on his cheek. My stomach twisted. He could have been killed. Like Tony.
“Oh…damn.” I looked worse than he did—dark circles, wild hair, sock monkey pajamas. Would he notice if I slammed the door, showered, dressed, tamed my hair? A do-over would be so good here.
“May I come in? Please?” he asked, handing me the daisies.
The “please” was good, but he already had me with the flowers and coffee. I motioned him in. “You’re here, why?”
“We, um, I’d like to talk to you. Apologize.”
I nodded, not sure what I wanted to say, and then headed upstairs leaving him to follow me or not. He did. Set the coffee and the flowers on the kitchen counter and turned to me, mouth open.
“I need a minute,” I said, holding my hand up to stop his words. I contemplated the flowers, opened a cupboard, and pointed to the top shelf. “The white pitcher. It’s perfect for the daisies. Would you put them…?”
“Yeah. I can do that. Flowers. Vase. Prep for a still life, right?”
I bit my tongue to stop the smile, and then gulped down half the cup of coffee. “Uh-huh.”
It didn’t take but a couple minutes to brush my teeth and pull on some clothes. He’d already seen the worst, and if I spiffed up too much it would look like I was trying too hard. Oh, the complexity of a potential make-up discussion.
He’d finished his coffee by the time I got back to the kitchen, so we settled on my deck with glasses of soda. I’d opted for outside, hoping the breeze would help to keep me calm.
His lips were moving. Silently rehearsing words? Maybe. “This morning…” He paused. “I was out of line.”
“Uh-huh.” No way was I giving in this quickly, daisies or not.
Mitch took a quick swallow of soda and set his glass aside as though he couldn’t figure out how it got in his hand. He frowned, pushed his wire-rims tight against his nose, and finally leaned toward me, bracing his elbows on his knees. “I admit to having a problem with stuff that isn’t grounded in scientific fact, especially anything reeking of—” he unlaced his fingers, wiggled them in the air— “supernatural crap. When I did the article on psychics, it was with the intention of debunking them.”
My body went very still and my fingers tightened around the icy cold glass of soda. I opened my mouth, but he stopped me with an upheld palm.
“It was a mixed bag. Most of them were charlatans; a couple were the real thing. Sorry. This is coming out all wrong. You’re real. I don’t get it, don’t understand it, but I know you’re not making this stuff up. You. Have. A. Gift.” He sat back, looking pale and a little drained.
My fingers eased their death grip on the glass. “A gift?” I prodded, wanting to hear more of his theory about psychics. Of which I wasn’t one. Well, I was in the strictest sense of the definition because I did perceive information hidden from normal senses, but I wasn’t like a fortune teller or anything.
“Yeah, a gift. I know there are people who are born with strange abilities.”
“Strange abilities?” No point making this too easy for him.
“Most of the population doesn’t get a bunch of pictures in their head when they touch something. I sure as hell never thought I’d ever meet anyone like you. It’s—”
“Weird. I know. I’ve been living with it for thirty-two years.” Probably it was time to let him off the hook. He did, after all, have a point. I am different. And I did spring this on him kind of suddenly. I took a swallow of soda and realized I wasn’t sure what to say next. Some words finally tumbled out. “I think it matters to you—” I held his eyes with my gaze— “whether or not I’m okay with your apology.”
“It matters. And, the thing is, I’m curious as all hell.” He flashed a grin, dimple and all.
My traitorous lips curve in response. “I’m not sure what to say. Does this mean you know I was being completely honest this morning?”
“Yeah,” he said, running his hands through his hair. “I know that.”
He did another pass of hands-through-hair that left the curls sticking out in odd shaped clumps. It was kind of cute all messy like that.
“I want you involved. Even if I don’t understand exactly what the hell you do, I’m open to any help I can get.” In a single motion he was up, striding around the deck. “I found Tony’s body. We grew up in the same town. I won’t let this go. Those bastards beat me, invaded my home. I’m pissed off, El. Very pissed off.”
I waited until he eased back into his chair with a sigh, until his eyes found mine. “I get it.”
He grinned. “You’ve been waiting for me to blow.”
“Yeah, I have.”
He checked his watch. “Gotta move. I have stuff to do, and promised Violet I’d be back in time for lunch, with beverages. Soft or hard?”
“Soft. Diet Coke for me.” I followed him downstairs. At the office door he turned to me with a long look that bordered on deliciously tempting. He touched my cheek. “Do you see images of what I’m thinking when I touch you?”
I surfaced from those deep pools of chocolate long enough to shake my head. “No. I have to do the touching for images to appear.”
“Good. I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.”
We sat around Violet’s kitchen table with cartons of Chinese, chopsticks flying and food disappearing at a rapid rate. We ate family style, no serving spoons. Just passed the cartons and helped ourselves to whatever looked good.
Between bites, Mitch brought us up to speed on what happened to him. Violet was running on a high level of impatience, occasionally checking her laptop and making notes.
“After my date with El, I planned to grab a nap then head for Bragg to catch my flight. I hit the sack, but my mind wouldn’t shut off.” He leveled his chopsticks in my direction. “You kept popping up. Never had a sea nymph drop at my feet before. The pie, the bike ride, none of it typical. Psychic redheads have never appealed to me. Catalogued them as ditzy until now. ”
I bristled, anger creeping under my skin, simmering. He held up his hand to keep me from interrupting, or more accurately, erupting.
“Just trying to set the stage.” He nabbed a piece of General Tso’s chicken and flashed me a smile. “You broke my stereotypical ditzy definition. I knew it, just ignored it because of the probable complications of a potential relationship. The red hair can wait for a later discussion.”
I ignored him, keeping my temper in check by busying myself with unruly chopsticks and Lo Mein Noodles—mostly because I wanted to hear the rest of his story.
Mitch chugged a couple mouthfuls of soda, then continued. “You were a complication, a distraction from finding Tony’s killer.”
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“But we—”
Violet gave me a not-so-gentle nudge under the table and jabbed her chopsticks at Mitch. “Get on with it.”
I choked on a noodle, washed it down with a slug of soda. How could she not tell him? We knew who killed Tony and she didn’t so much as blink, much less spill the info.
Mitch plucked a bite of noodles from the Lo Mein carton I was holding. “I’d stopped downstairs long enough to stash some water in the fridge, then I headed up to the third floor. The view, the sunlight, caught my attention, so I stayed on the deck. It was almost sweet light, so I turned, thinking to grab my camera. Figured it’d clear my head some to get lost in the images.”
Violet glared at him. He lifted one broad shoulder in a what-the-heck shrug, and popped the bite of noodles.
“There was a scraping noise, figured it was a squirrel or mouse. Next thing I know, I’m flat on my back. This ugly bald bastard had stabbed me with a needle and is kicking me in the side, bitching about something. Damned if I could figure out his problem. Muscles wouldn’t work, head hurt like hell, and I couldn’t do much between kicks but cuss at him. Next thing I know, I’m in a stinking warehouse. Woke up on a cement floor, my head ready to explode, and that bald bastard standing over me, watching.”
“He didn’t ask you any questions?” My curiosity tingled.
Mitch eyed me under arched brows. “About that time my brain kicked in, and I figured whatever the hell was going on didn’t have a damn thing to do with my work, and everything to do with Tony’s murder.”
Violet’s gaze locked on Mitch, unrelenting. “Why did you rule out your assignment? You were about to deploy, so the reasoning fit ‘assignment’ better than ‘murder.’”
Why was she pushing at him when we knew the who of it?
He didn’t sound bothered by the edge of doubt in Violet’s words, but my mind scrambled around trying to make sense of how photography suddenly became a dangerous profession. I slid my palm against the back of Mitch’s hand. He didn’t move away so I let my fingertips touch his skin. A moment of warmth and something comfortable washed over me before the images kicked in. He wasn’t your average photographer; he’d specialized in hot spots. My breath caught, and he shot me a look, abruptly moved his hand.
“Forgot. Gotta be careful about the magic fingers.”
It hurt. My head understood the problem, but my heart—a pool of confused ache. I’d trespassed. Heat rushed to my cheeks. “Sorry,” I mouthed.
Mitch tipped his chin and then turned his attention back to Violet. “No red flags from recent assignments, and this one is a follow-up. So no go. Besides, these bastards hit with a vengeance that was fresh.”
He waited until Violet finished typing, then continued. “When dickhead noticed I was awake, he planted his boot on my chest—like he didn’t already have me by the balls—and growled something about pictures. I didn’t know what the hell he wanted, must have mumbled something about ‘What pictures?’ but between the drugs and the headache from hell, it wasn’t making sense.”
I couldn’t stop the words. “Felt kind of like a ditzy redhead, did you?”
His eye closed in a lazy wink. “No. I felt like hell, but probably sounded like a ditzy redhead.” He reached for my hand and cradled it, careful to avoid my fingertips.
I nudged him in the side with my elbow. “And? What did Shaved Head say?”
“Typical thug.” Mitch lowered his voice and rasped, “The pictures, asshole. What’dit’ya do wit ’em?”
I had to give him credit. He did a pretty good imitation of thug.
“I knew I was in deep shit because the only photos he could be referring to, I’d left with the police. Evidence. If I’d had a brain cell working I wouldn’t have answered, but—”
He chugged the rest of his soda. “Baldy knocked me around some more then made a phone call. Right after that he gave me another shot, and next thing I knew I was in the ER.”
Violet leaned back, frowned at us. “Wonder why they didn’t kill you?”
“I thought about that.” Mitch gave her an agreeable nod. “I think the asshole calling the shots has something bigger going on. Didn’t want to leave a trail of bodies. Tony should have been a dead end. Easy to call a suicide. Offing yourself with a shit load of drugs in a bottle of beer? It probably seemed like something a guy like Tony would do.” He leaned back, interlaced his hands behind his head. “My death would be tough to hide because people keep track of me. The government. Jayne. No sane person would want to be on their shit lists.”
Violet grinned. “Point.”
They had that right. The government, maybe. Jayne? Nope. Not in this lifetime would I want to tangle with Jayne. But something else was nagging at my curiosity. “What did the cops say when you told them about the pictures?”
“Not much. The Sheriff’s department is involved as well as several police precincts. It’ll probably be a cluster until they figure out who’s going to be responsible for what.”
I started to clear up the leftover food. “So, the pictures?”
“Got me why they’re worth killing for.” He handed me his chopsticks. “They’re of old barns and farm structures. No people, nothing suspicious. Didn’t seem strange since Tony had always liked old buildings. Blew me away when he hired me though. I don’t come cheap, and he commissioned five photos ringing in at a grand each.”
Violet picked up a couple cartons of leftovers and headed for the refrigerator. “I want to see those pictures,” she said, making space for the containers on an already full shelf.
Mitch scooped up the rest of the boxes and handed them to her. “Developed ‘em today. Ready for show and tell?”
“Clarify.” Violet’s forehead wrinkled. “Cops have the photos, but not the negatives?”
“Correct.”
“And,” Violet continued, “the perps didn’t find them?”
“Correct, again. Bastards who did the dirty didn’t search the refrigerator.”
“Refrigerator?” I piped up, nodding at Violet’s silent question, and taking the bottle of water she offered. “I didn’t know negatives needed to be chilled, and isn’t photography all digital now?”
“For my work, absolutely. For art, I sometimes prefer the old fashioned way. Think Ansel Adams.”
“Got it. I have a Rose and Driftwood reproduction hanging in my bedroom, and one of his wall calendars. So—” I shot Violet a when-are-we-telling-him look— “what’s next?”
Mitch snagged a bottle of water from Violet’s hand. “My vote—storyboard first, then photographs.
I retrieved it from Violet’s living room. “It probably won’t mean anything to you, except for the dead body and the camera.”
Mitch looked it over, his fingers tapping on various pictures as he considered them. “You’re right, nothing pops, but it helps to know what’s here. Might trigger something later.”
Violet’s face smoothed into inscrutable, and a neatly manicured finger pointed at the picture of New York. “Nothing about this one? No connection to Tony…Civitelli?”
Mitch rubbed his hand along his chin. “You know.”
Okay, what was going on here? I could feel my nose wrinkle up as I tried to figure out what he hadn’t told us. “What does she know? What do you know?”
I glanced at Mitch, wondering if he was going to fill me in. Quiet. Too quiet. They must have forgotten who they weren’t talking to. I reached for Mitch’s hand—he was sitting closer to me, and picked up several images of Mitch and Tony at a hockey game. Nothing noteworthy.
Violet spoke up. “Adam mentioned Tony’s last name. I ran a background check and learned a bit about the family. I’m just wondering why Mitch never mentioned that Tony’s a Civitelli.”
“What?” What the heck was she talking about?
Mitch sucked in his cheeks, looked at me. “I didn’t think about the history of the Civitelli family when I found Tony. He’s always been Tony to me. Just another kid at school, and the ‘family�
� aspect of Tony’s family was so accepted. It didn’t register as important.”
“Un-huh.” Violet slid her chair back and crossed her legs, the movement casually lethal.
Mitch’s chin jutted to the side. “Everyone knew the Civitellis were about as dangerous as The Three Stooges. I talked to Adam Stone about it, and I know he’s checking it out, but my gut told me this is something different, not related to organized—” he held up his hand. “Make that unorganized, crime.”
“This was your opportunity to come clean, and why I asked El to bring her storyboard. I don’t work with clients who lie to me. And make no mistake, omission counts.”
Mitch curled his hand around mine. “I thought about it, but there’s no way the New York connection fits with Tony being killed.” He sighed, rubbed his other hand across the back of his neck. “I wasn’t sure if I wanted to explain about Tony. There’s a reason he lives…lived, here rather than in New York. Didn’t want to be near family activities. The guy’s dead. Hell, I did what I thought was right.”
Okay, it was nice that he wanted to protect Tony, in a convoluted sort of way, but it still wasn’t making sense. I frowned, my attention focused on Violet. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I needed to be sure.” Her voice softened. “I don’t want anything or anyone to hurt you. And I have to say you’re spot on with the New York picture in your collage. I didn’t want to tell you until I completed the search on Tony and knew for sure. The more facts I had, the better for all of us.”
“Uh-huh. This overprotective thing you both have going on has to stop. It’s interfering with…everything. Where does this leave us? With the two of you not trusting each other?”
Mitch sucked in a breath. “It leaves me in the shithouse. Violet’s right. I hired her, trusted her to find and prosecute Tony’s killer, but didn’t come clean on our background. Not intentional, but a bad freakin’ mistake. It won’t happen again.”
“Damn right about that, Mitchell Hunt.” The blank in Violet’s eyes disappeared, replaced with a deep green glimmer. “I did a more extensive check on you, too.”
a Touch of Ice Page 9