Relatively Risky

by Pauline Baird Jones

  She looked down, tracing the printing on the ice pack. “Didn’t have a boyfriend, though I had a serious crush on Luke Skywalker.”

  “Luke? I thought all the girls went for Han Solo.”

  “I was a geek. He didn’t have a girl. I didn’t have a guy. I felt a bond.” Her grin was cute and it chased some of the shadows from her eyes. “What about you?”

  “Me? I was desperate to leave.” Would have crawled on his hands and knees to get away. “School dorm was a fortress of solitude compared to home.”

  “Wow? Seriously?” He nodded. “It freaked me out for about five minutes. There were probably more people in the one building than my whole town. And then Sarah—”

  “—formed the band?”

  She chuckled. “That came later. She came in and looked at me for what seemed a long time. She was beautiful, confident—everything I wasn’t—and I was sure she was disappointed in her roommate, cause girls totally daydream about that stuff at seventeen. And then she…smiled and I knew it was going to be fine. Great even. We stayed roomies for the whole four. Are friends forever.”

  “Must have freaked your folks for you to get a New Orleans roommate. Did they seem upset when you visited?”

  Nell looked rueful. “I never did. They were good. I never suspected a plot. Bright bulb, aye?”

  “Parents know what buttons to push,” Alex said, with a touch of bitterness. Look at him, living with his dad again. And wondering what Calvino had to say to him. Afraid to ask. His hands gripped the steering wheel. It was one thing to wonder if Curly was a bit crooked. But knowing his dad had been his partner—he’d never wondered before. Until Calvino. Wished he’d punched the guy.

  “That they do.” Nell sounded more resigned than bitter. “I’m still trying to wrap my brain around a grandmother who was wooed by three bad dudes and then fled with her lover into the night. Not the grandma you dream about.” She hesitated, as if considering a tough question. “Do you think she really is dead?”

  “Legally she is.” Could she have hidden like her daughter? Be out there somewhere? Maybe with a life insurance policy? She’d have needed something to elude Calvino. The case against her was as compelling as the one against Nell’s parents. Curly had implied he’d known Nell’s mom survived, that he’d helped her, but now Alex wondered. He’d been pretty shook up for someone in the know. It didn’t matter now. Grabbing Nell had sealed his deal, of course, but it did make a cop think. And wonder….

  “It’s kind of funny, in a way.”

  “What is?” He blinked, impressed she’d found anything funny in the situation.

  “You know too much about your family. And I know too little.” Her grin was brave, a bit ragged around the edges. Looked good with the shiner.

  But she was wrong. He didn’t know enough about his dad. Not nearly enough.

  They were almost to the house and Nell still hadn’t found a way to tell Alex about the guy she’d shot.

  Oh, by the way, I popped a guy in the cemetery.

  So there was this guy with a gun and I had to shoot him…

  No matter how many different ways Nell tried, it just sounded…creepy. Wise kid-ish. Were there right words for admitting you’d shot someone? All those years of movies, TV and books and nothing to help with the problem. How sad was that? With confession time running out, Nell let her thoughts edge up to the actual shooting. It had surprised her how easy it was. That she hadn’t hesitated. Was it the wise DNA? Or her training? Whatever the reason, it had probably saved her life, but still, didn’t one pause and reflect or something? Have that split second moment where you made a conscious choice?

  Even now she felt worse about the goon who’d given her his gun than the guy she shot. Maybe if she had to look at him on a slab. Or in the eyes. Maybe it came later? Post traumatic something or other? Not a lot of catch-your-breath time yet. And she’d about ran out of confessing time. She still hadn’t figured out how to tell the cop she’d shot someone. Shot sounded better than, I killed a guy. She didn’t know he was dead. He probably was. She might not drive straight, but her shooting…

  Maybe if she’d been raised wise—no. That wouldn’t have helped. They never confessed. They called lawyers.

  She glanced at Alex, caught him glancing at her. He looked puzzled, possibly a bit worried. Of course he was worried. And more than a bit. He had to face his dad, tell him about Curly, and then tell Ben about his car. All of which had happened because she drove her bike into his car jacking.

  “I am so sorry.” She could tell him about the shooting, hand over the gun later. It wasn’t cowardice. It was kindness. Okay, so it was cowardice and kindness. Whatever. No need to pile on the bad news until it was time to pile it on.

  Nell showed Alex how to get into the driveway that snaked between the back of the house and what used to be the carriage house in the old days. He pulled to a stop behind his dad’s car and turned off the ignition but didn’t reach for door handle.

  “I should be the one to tell your brother about his car,” Nell muttered. “It’s all my fault.”

  “You didn’t hire the shooters.”

  “Definitely not in my budget.” She frowned. “I wonder who did hire them? And who they were hired to—” She stopped. She didn’t really wonder that, at least, not now. They had to have been after Calvino and Afoniki. It was the only thing that made sense—if anything could. At the moment, all she wanted was to go into the house and not leave until the shooting stopped. She needed a bathroom, too.

  “Time to face the music.”

  Nell grinned. “Air guitar or drums?”

  Alex grinned back, shoved open the door and came around to open hers. She couldn’t hide a grimace as her body protested movement.

  “Are you sure you shouldn’t be in an ER?”

  Oh temptation. “If this goes badly, we’ll both need an ER,” Nell said, a bit wryly.

  Alex didn’t disagree, which told her more than she wanted to know about how things would probably go down.

  Alex pulled out his phone and activated the screen. He frowned. “Still nothing from Ben. He might have been called in to work.”

  Nell didn’t know if she should be worried or grateful. She didn’t feel like the same gal who’d thrown her leg over her bike yesterday morning and ridden off into the rising sun, or possibly away from it.

  She let her gaze trail over him as he started to put his cell away. He was a good man. Some women liked bad boys, thought good was boring. Now, more than ever, Nell was grateful he was good. He wasn’t at all boring. He looked good, kissed better—was she bad to be thinking this stuff right now? Last time she’d asked—but last time she’d been Nell, the wait/author/librarian. She’d added quite a few more tags to her identity in the last two days. Would it come out who she was? If it did—like she’d had a shot at him anyway.

  He’d kissed her like she had a shot.

  He was divorced, probably had baggage left over from that. Everyone seemed to, if one believed the talk shows and reality television.

  He didn’t like kids and she seemed to attract them like flypaper. Three strikes, actually probably more than three. She was too tired to add them all up. It was easier to just accept that she was out. What was it about her grandmother, and to some extent her mom, that had attracted guys? And why hadn’t they passed any of it on to her?

  Before Alex could stow the cell, it vibrated insistently. He looked at the number. “It’s Frank. I’d better take it.”

  Nell couldn’t remember where Frank fit in, though she was sort of sure he was a sib. She nodded, then pulled the door open and slipped inside. Maybe if she confessed before Alex came in, Ben would be mostly over it. Or not blame Alex for it. She headed down the long hall that had been the servants entrance back in the day, reaching what was now the mud room. She stopped in surprise at the sight of the goon waiting there. He looked at her. She looked at him. He’d been with old lady St. Cyr, she realized. Why had she come back? Nell wasn’t sure she car
ed, except for being too tired to deal with formidable right now. She blinked and realized the goon’s mouth had curved up into a sort of smile. He wasn’t good at it, but perhaps goons didn’t get a lot of opportunities to smile.

  She tipped up the edges of her mouth, all she felt capable of. “Hi.”

  His smile widened, though it still kind of sucked as a smile. “Yo.”

  She blinked, wondering why she was surprised to hear him speak. Of course goons had voices, even if they didn’t use them a lot around the boss. She searched for something else to say. Didn’t find anything. She wished Alex would hurry. She felt uneasy, with no discernible reason why. Well, except for the goon part. She studied him almost absently. Wondered where his partner was, while glad he wasn’t here staring at her, too. The artist in her took note that he looked older than…what? Guess she’d always thought, in a vague sort of way, that goons were on the young side. That they had a prime, like guys in sports. He wasn’t bad looking. Blonde. Cold gray eyes. A Bad boy, but not a sexy one. Just a creepy, middle aged one.

  “That’s some shiner.”

  Nell touched her eye. She’d left or lost her ice pack. She couldn’t remember where. “Banged it on the steering wheel.”

  He frowned. “You were in an accident?”

  Technically it wasn’t an accident when she’d made it happen, but it was too complicated to explain—not that she wanted to explain to him, so she gave a tiny, noncommittal shrug. She wished she knew a way to retreat. And wondered why she felt she couldn’t. She didn’t feel like she could go forward either. Didn’t want to get close to him or turn her back on him. Her bump throbbed.

  “I need some ibuprofen.” That meant she had to go toward him. Get past him and everything would be all right, right? She sucked it up and took a step toward him, then another. There was no upstream at sea level, but it felt like trying to swim up something. He stepped to the side, as if to let her pass, but the next step brought her in line with the laundry room door. It wasn’t usually standing open. Something caught her eye, and she looked, even though there was a distant, gut twitch against it.

  The second goon lay sprawled in front of the washer. And the dryer. He was long. And limp. “Does…he need help?”

  “No. Not anymore.”

  “Oh.” Nell blinked a couple of times. “Did he try to—” —kill you, she’d meant to ask, but he cut in.

  “He got in my way.”

  “Oh.” Nell edged back, lest she too get in his way.

  “I’m Roger Dunstead,” he said, then added, “Junior.”

  “Of course.” Without the clarification, she’d have surely thought he was his dead father. Okay, with all the people turning out to not be dead, maybe she did need the clarification. “Do they call you Junior?” Oh crap. What were goons called? “Or Mr. Dunstead?” She attempted a bright, clueless look, as if the name meant nothing to her. Didn’t want to be disrespectful to the guy who probably had a gun—oh yeah, there it was. Not quite pointed at her, but definitely deployed. Suppressor, too.

  “I can shoot Baker when he comes in,” he said, his tone calm and cool. “Or you can step in there. Stay real quiet until he’s passed by.”

  Nell didn’t hesitate. Alex wasn’t expecting a problem. She couldn’t, she wouldn’t let him be gunned down. Also couldn’t let herself think about the others who must be somewhere in the house…couldn’t worry right now about whether they were dead or alive…

  She stepped carefully over the dead guy, trying not to look too closely at him, while somehow managing to see the bullet hole—she wrenched her gaze away and leaned against the dryer. Her knees had lost structural integrity again. She had a gun, but it was stuck in her pants and she was pretty sure Junior would notice if she tried to get at it.

  He followed her in, shifted the downed goon’s legs out of the way, turned on the light—there was no window—and shut the door. He did it matter-of-factly, efficiently even, without taking his eyes, or his gun, off her. Not sure why this seemed odd. Goons would need to be efficient, or they wouldn’t last long.

  It was bad enough to smell the dead guy’s nasty aftershave, but the close quarters also brought to the forefront her own need for a bath after her adventures in the cemetery and car crashing. She took a cautious sniff—no reason to give him more reasons to shoot her—and regretted it. Oh yeah, she needed a shower and clothes change. Her gaze seemed unable to stay off the body, so she turned it to the shelf of laundry-type stuff. They were almost out of laundry soap…needed to get it on the list…

  She knew her thoughts were trivial. Trivial helped keep the scream down in her chest. It kept trying to crawl up her throat and if she screamed, Alex would come running—

  The creak of the door opening made her jump. Footsteps coming down the hall. She tensed, wondering if he’d shoot Alex anyway? Why should she believe him?

  Alex stowed his cell and walked up to the door, his steps as slow as his thoughts. The word about Curly was spreading through the family. Frank was worried about Zach. So was Alex. Everyone wanted Alex to talk to Zach. He wanted to talk to his dad, too, once he figured out what to say to him, what to ask him…his frown deepened.

  It was a strange thing to realize your dad had lived a life you knew little about. That he had secrets. Why hadn’t his dad mentioned Charlie’s connection to Ellie Calvino that night? Or, if he didn’t want to do it in front of Curly, why not later? He frowned. He knew the names of his dad’s siblings, for the most part, but Charlie’s name hadn’t come up much. He’d thought he was dead, not missing. Was he presumed dead? Did it matter now? It felt like it did, though logic said it was more of a footnote than a clue to anything.

  Alex rubbed his face, leaned his back against the closed door, just for a minute. Or four. His head hurt. Pretty much every part of his body hurt. And tired? He’d passed tired some time in the night. Rather thought he was now in sleep deprived zone. On the fast track to zombie. He wanted to go lie down somewhere dark and sleep until he couldn’t sleep anymore. Then he wanted to sort the mess into something less messy.

  Then he could, maybe, talk to his dad. And face his siblings. Face Ben and tell him he was without wheels, too.

  Two days.

  Had it only been two days since Nell rode into his car jacking and upended his life? Forty freaking eight hours? What would she do with three? If she had just minded her own business—

  His thoughts ground to a painful halt, because, yeah, his brain hurt, too.

  If Nell hadn’t ridden into his life, she’d be dead.

  Oh, there was still some doubt who had been the target of the first shooting, but his gut had no doubts. Alex might have a cavalcade of perps who hated him, but most of them were too smart to shoot a cop. They didn’t like the heat.

  All three wise guys had a next-in-line who wouldn’t like an heir to two of the organizations popping up. The only one who might benefit if she lived was Afoniki. It gave him a shot at bringing it all back together. Alex had a feeling the slime ball had figured it out, too. He’d tried to be suave before the shooting started.

  Calvino had shown up without his heir apparent, who might feel threatened enough by Nell’s existence to try to take her out. And the old lady? According to Nell, that meeting had been chilly. In fact, Nell had yet to have a happy family moment. His family might make him crazy, but as far as he knew, none of them had tried to kill him—at least intentionally.

  He rubbed his face again. It didn’t help. Time to face the music and he hoped to hell it didn’t involve air guitar. Almost reluctantly, he smiled. Nell did play some mean fake drums. Okay, maybe he wasn’t completely sorry she’d ridden into his life.

  He opened the door and stepped inside.

  Now, when it was too late, Nell wondered why she’d believed Dunstead when he said he wouldn’t hurt Alex. Didn’t Miss Marple advise against believing what people said? And this was a bad guy who probably hadn’t been on speaking terms with the truth for years.

  As if he heard
her thoughts, or suspected a revolt incoming, he murmured, “You kill a cop, you get more heat.”

  Not a stupid man, despite making his stand in the laundry room. Nell tried not to be offended by the notion that her death wouldn’t result in “heat.” She did have other things to think about. If this was a kidnapping, then what happened next?

  It seemed to take a long time for the steps to pass the door and continue on. She exhaled a tiny sigh of relief. The air was too nasty for a big sigh. Damn, she could taste it in her mouth. After another long pause for Alex to get down another long hall, she heard the distant murmur of voices that seemed to say that Alex had reached the kitchen safely. And that someone was alive in there to talk to him. She gripped the edge of the dryer and tried to figure out what to do next.

  Funny how strong the will to survive was. For the first time, she felt a connection to those two wise kids.

  “So, now what?” She kept her voice low. At the moment this was between her and Junior. She didn’t have much time. It wouldn’t take Alex long to smell a rat. He was a smart guy. And there was a lot of rat to smell.

  “I want the proof,” he said, turning so his back was against the door.

  “The—” She didn’t have to pretend to be puzzled.

  “She told me you had it. The proof your father killed mine.”

  “She…” It wasn’t really a question. He worked for grandma. But there was something else in his voice. “My…grandmother told you that?”

  He stiffened. “I’m more kin to Mrs. St. Cyr than you are. I’ve been here for her when no one else was.”

  Yeah, between kin it was all formal names and all. Not that grannie had asked Nell to call her anything family-like. But it did seem that Grandma had wound him up real good, like she’d tried to do with Nell, she realized. Had she pointed him at St. Cyr, too?