The Queen of Miami

by Heidi Lowe

  “They say they've come to pay their respects,” the youngest of Maurice's children, Noah, offered.

  She narrowed her eyes at Corman. “It's no secret that my father had no friends in the Miami Police Department. So why don't you tell us why you're really here.”

  Corman smiled jovially. “Well, we were gonna wait until after the funeral to tell you, but seeing as we're here...” He looked at Layke, who seemed paler than usual, then turned back to Willa, his smile never fading. “We found one of your guys in an abandoned warehouse in Coral Way. He wasn't alone. There were a bunch of dead Italians with him. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?” He looked to Trent for the answer, surmising that he would know more about it than she would.

  “What makes you so sure it was one of our guys? Last time I checked, we weren't missing any friends.” It was Trent's affected way of playing dumb and ignorant that made his guilt obvious. Corman saw it and so too did Layke.

  “Brad 'The Bullet' Gunner? Sound familiar?”

  “Oh, Brad. Yeah, we had to let him loose. He wasn't working out,” Trent said. He wasn't even trying to sound convincing. “Haven't seen him in weeks. Not surprised he ended up that way. He took too many stupid risks. But I'm not sure what our old employee's business has to do with us.”

  “My guess is it was a deal that went wrong. I don't know. Looked to me like somebody was trying to rip someone off.” Corman shrugged for effect. “But here's the thing. Whoever Brad Gunner was with, they left him. Because he certainly wasn't alone. No man could take down seven Italians alone, unless he was a god.”

  He looked at all four siblings, searching for even the slightest flicker of guilt. None showed. They were either completely innocent or all pathological liars, and Corman wouldn't have bet anything on the former.

  “And here's the interesting part: looks like the slugs taken out of the Italians match the ones from that container of military weapons that was stolen a few months back. How long ago did you say Brad stopped working for you?”

  “We let him go a few weeks ago,” Trent said. “It's like I said, he took too many stupid risks. We don't know half the things he did in his spare time. I would say knocking off the lockup was his doing. Rest assured, detective, we had nothing to do with it.” He spoke like butter wouldn't melt, even put a hand over his chest. Layke was sure she could see the hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

  “Convenient, don't you think, Owen?”

  It seemed like all the eyes of the world were on Layke now. It was Willa's stare, however, that made her feel the most uneasy.

  “And who is she supposed to be?” The amusement in Willa's voice matched her eyes. She stepped a little closer so that she was standing directly in front of Layke, and gave her the longest, most spine-tingling head-to-toe look, making her feel two inches tall. “She looks like a baby dyke wearing her father's suit!”

  Everyone in earshot chuckled loudly, their laughter filling the cemetery, loud enough to wake the dead.

  Layke's face burned rouge. She didn't think she would ever stop blushing. Never before had she wanted to pull her weapon on someone so badly than she did on Willa di Blasio. At the very least she could wipe that shit-eating grin off her face.

  “It's kind of cute though.” Her eyes landed on the detective badge at Layke's waist. She reached out and stroked it. Layke felt powerless to stop her. How had she allowed her to get so close? And, more importantly, why wasn't she backing away from her?

  “Detective, huh?” Their eyes met. Layke swallowed. “They're just handing these out to anyone these days.”

  From a different angle, the placement of Willa's hand at Layke's waist could have appeared suggestive. It was this thought, and the fact that all eyes were on them, why Layke pulled herself from her reverie, grabbed Willa's arm at the wrist and yanked her hand away. Neither of them looked away. Green eyes met hazel-green, resolve met resolve.

  “That's enough,” Layke said, her voice coming out as a firm whisper.

  Willa's eyes danced mischievously, filled with humor. Until finally she decided that indeed, enough was enough.

  Turning away from Layke, she said to Corman, “My brother has told you everything he knows. Now, if you'd excuse us, we have to go and mourn our father.” With that, she trotted off to catch up to the rest of the family, and her brothers followed shortly after. Not before Trent got in a final glare, which he shot at Corman.

  “Ugh!” Layke slammed the passenger door behind her when she returned to Corman's car. Her face was red with fury, her body trembling with it. “What a bitch! I've never felt so insulted in all my life.” She turned to her partner. “And you! I can't believe you were laughing with them!”

  Corman didn't improve her mood or the situation by chuckling again. “What, it was funny. Your jacket is a bit big.”

  Layke growled again, throwing up her hands in frustration. “And you tell me this now? Just drive.” She strapped herself in, turned away from him to sulk, feeling thoroughly demeaned and embarrassed.

  They drove in silence for a couple of minutes. At least she was silent; Corman promptly filled it with his tuneless humming.

  “I think you've got it wrong,” Layke said, still peering out the window as the scenery whirred past.

  “What's that?”

  “You said Trent was heir to the throne. Well, I think you're wrong.”

  “I suppose it could be one of the other two. Guy di Blasio, the smart-looking one, the old bastard could have left it to him. Would make sense, I guess.”

  “I don't think it's any of the boys...” She looked at him, her face serious. “I think she's the one.”

  “You mean Willa?” he asked incredulously, the car swerving slightly. He chortled. “You can't be serious.”

  “I am. Why is it so hard to believe? They showed deference to her. Didn't you notice?”

  “She's their only sister. Of course they'll show some deference. But come on, Owen. What you're suggesting is ludicrous.”

  “Why? Because she's a girl?”

  “Because I doubt she knows the first thing about the crap her family gets up to. There's a reason her file's empty. She's not a person of interest.”

  “I think you're wrong,” she insisted again, more adamantly. “If we ignore her, I believe we'll be making a grave mistake.”

  Corman shook his head, gave a little laugh. “Well, they did say Maurice di Blasio was losing his mind in his old age...”

  “If you ask me, leaving her in charge would have been the smartest move he could've made.”

  “And how do you figure that?”

  “It's fooling you, isn't it?” Layke said smugly.

  The smoke alarm blared through Layke's apartment as she cursed, darted from the bathroom, her body soaking wet, and ran into the kitchen. She growled when she pulled open the oven and a mass of smoke escaped, hitting her in the face. The fumes choked her and clouded the whole room as she fanned and coughed, fanned and coughed.

  “Great,” she declared, staring down at what was once a meat feast pizza, but was now an inedible charcoal circle. To make matters worse, as if she wasn't already aware, her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since lunchtime, almost seven hours ago.

  Her bell sounded just as she silenced the smoke detector.

  “Hope you haven't eaten,” a voice spoke from behind a bag of Thai take-out. Then a man's face appeared from behind the bag – smiling, big white teeth gleaming.

  “You're a lifesaver!” she said, grabbing his face and planting a fat kiss on his lips. She was so grateful for his perfect timing, so too was her stomach, that she was prepared to overlook the way he'd slicked back his blonde hair, with enough wax to start a candle shop. Or that he'd parted it down the middle the way she hated. Ever since his promotion from account manager to vice president at the advertising agency, he'd seemingly done everything in his power to take on the most pompous appearance, as though he had to show the world that he ha
d joined the rest of the one percent. Only in appearance, luckily. Where it mattered he still remained grounded, down-to-earth. He was still the same Dustin she'd been engaged to for the last five years.

  “Have you been cooking again?” he said, sniffing the air.

  She took the food from him while he shrugged off his jacket.

  “Silly me forgot to take the pizza out of the oven before I went in the shower.”

  He chuckled, following her into the kitchen. He pulled out an unopened bottle of wine from the fridge, feeling completely at home in her place. “I came just in time then.”

  They sat down to eat, Layke's crippling hunger making her a terrible host. She was more interested in wolfing down noodles and rice than asking him how his day was.

  He watched her without her knowing, then laughed to himself.

  “What?” she asked, mouth full, a bit of noodle hanging out of the side.

  “Nothing. When was your last meal, the turn of the century?” he teased.

  “I couldn't find the time to eat today. Well, I sort of forgot to.” She wiped her mouth. “Big case.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. Multiple homicides. Just a bunch of dead bodies, spread out. Bullet shells and dried blood everywhere. It was as if I'd walked into a Tarantino movie!”

  “Wow, and I thought I had an eventful day when we lost one of our biggest clients.” He took a sip from his glass of wine, his eyes drifting to her hand. “Where's your ring?” he asked, aiming for casual.

  “Dustin, you know I don't wear it at work, and I take it off before I get in the shower,” she said, agitation showing in her frown.

  “That doesn't leave much time for you to wear it,” he said. She knew the smile he gave wasn't from the heart, and that his comment was passive aggressive. That was how he dealt with her – skirted around his issues with her, masking things behind sarcastic smiles and ambiguous comments.

  But it was hard to be mad at him for noticing. He always mentioned her missing ring, and she always had an excuse. She was cooking, she was washing her hair, she was taking out the trash and didn't want it falling off. It was always something, some new excuse for not showing the world that she was off the market.

  “Have you heard of the di Blasios? My father may have mentioned them in the past. Big Miami crime family, mostly known for gun-running?” Layke said, deciding that a change of subject was necessary. This was the topic she was most interested in discussing, not some stupid ring. In fact, the di Blasios, and particularly the highly offensive Miss di Blasio, had been on her mind since their first encounter. So much so that she'd shoved her suit into a black bag along with a bunch of other clothes that no longer fit, or that she would never wear again, to be donated to charity. So insulted had she been that she'd trawled the internet in search of local, affordable tailors that specialized in suits.

  “You mean Maurice di Blasio, the guy who escaped a murder conviction back in '95, for gunning down those Chinese tourists?”

  “That's the one.”

  “Sure, who doesn't know that guy? Didn't he die recently? I think I read something about it in the paper.”

  “His funeral was today. I had the pleasure of attending.” She pulled a face.

  Dustin laughed. “What is that, a perk of the job? You get to go to mob boss funerals?”

  “Not exactly. Corman thought it was a good idea to show up, uninvited, and dropped it to the guy's kids that we basically suspect them of being behind the warehouse homicides. Yeah, you can imagine how that went down.”

  “Ouch. Is your partner still breathing?”

  They ate in silence a little while longer, and then Layke stopped. It took her a couple of minutes to build up the courage to approach the subject, and when she realized that she was nervous about bringing it up, it made her even more anxious.

  “Hey, did you know he had a daughter?” It was her time to try for casual, only her efforts came off far too disingenuous. Luckily, Dustin had never been very perceptive.

  “Who?”

  “Maurice di Blasio. I knew about his four sons, but there's also a daughter.”

  Dustin contemplated this for a moment then said, as though the memory re-entered his mind, “I think I remember seeing something about that actually, when the trial was going on. Yeah, I do. She must have been pretty young at the time.”

  “How did I not know about her?” It still frustrated her to be seemingly the last person to know something so important. At least she believed Willa's existence was important, though she couldn't say the same for her partner.

  “Probably because wives, sisters and daughters never get spoken about in connection with people like this, unless their hands are dirty too.”

  “I met her today.”

  “Really?” He arched forward, intrigued. “What was she like?”

  “She was a complete and utter bitch!”

  He chuckled. “You sound surprised.”

  “I was surprised. There I was, minding my own business, just trying to do my job, then she insults me, treats me like dirt in front of everyone. I wanted to punch her in the face.”

  Dustin's guffaw did nothing to make Layke feel better.

  “What did she say to you?”

  “Just some stuff about my clothes...” she said miserably, dismissively, conveniently leaving out the part about looking like a baby dyke. The fewer people knew about that comment, the better, as far as she was concerned. That wasn't a label she wanted attached to her.

  “Well if you ask me, a little insult was the best you could have hoped for, turning up at her father's funeral, pointing fingers. They're gangsters, what were you expecting, a welcoming committee?”

  “I'm a detective, I was expecting respect.”

  She'd barely got the word out when Dustin launched into a rendition of Aretha Franklin's Respect song.

  Layke rolled her eyes and growled. “How old are you?”

  Once they'd eaten all they could, with plenty left over, they sluggishly dragged themselves to the living-room and collapsed onto the couch.

  “You talk to your mother yet, about bringing her account to us? We're really starting to expand in the apparel sector. Would be great to have her line for the over-fifties and the baby boomers.” He'd waited until he had her feet on his lap, massaging away the day's stresses, to bring up the big thing that was on his mind.

  Layke lay back against the arm of the couch, eyes closed, happy for the pampering, but deep down praying that it would never progress from there. She had to admit her current state must have been inviting to him – hair still wet, and wearing nothing but a damp bathrobe, her toned thighs on full display. But that was an accident; she hadn't known he was coming by. Had she known, she would have dressed more appropriately. Now she worried that he would get ideas, that he would want some kind of reward for his troubles. She wasn't in the mood to turn him down, which, she realized, was how most of their “nights of passion” had come about. The thought depressed her.

  “She's still talking to some other agencies. Hasn't decided on anyone yet.”

  “But surely she would choose her future son-in-law over a stranger?”

  “You know what my mother's like, Dustin.” She sighed. “Everything's a competition with her. Family loyalty, nepotism, all of that, means nothing. Which is kind of surprising, considering...”

  He did know what her mother was like. Honestly, he couldn't stand the woman. In the seven years they'd been together, she'd been trying to set Layke up with other guys, mostly guys who earned more than he did. Yet she was all smiles and good wishes to his face. His future monster-in-law was always inadvertently stabbing him in the back. Even with the new VP promotion it still wasn't good enough for her.

  “You know I wouldn't ask, it's just that we're really going after the baby boomer market over the next few years, and it sort of reflects badly on me that my own mother-in-law won't sign with us.”

  “Mmm,” Layke moaned, having already drowned out his
whining. She had to give him credit – he gave great foot massages.

  “She would be a huge catch, Layke. And with her on the books we'd get a lot more companies catering to the same market,” he droned on.

  “I'll bring it up the next time I see her, all right?” she said, giving in. “But can we please not talk shop for the rest of the evening?”

  “Of course, of course.”

  She realized it was a mistake diverting his attention as soon as she felt his hands stroking her leg. Silently she prayed that he would stop of his own accord; it got extremely awkward having to subdue his sexual advances when she wasn't in the mood, which she never was these days. But his hand traveled further up her leg, until he reached her thigh. Her eyes sprung open when she felt his lips on her thigh.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, shoving him away as though he was some horny stranger in a bar who'd had too much to drink and was trying to take advantage of her.

  He looked at her, startled, his eyes reflecting his confusion. “What does it look like I'm doing, Layke? Try not to sound so disgusted by me.”

  She sat up, dragging her legs in, stealing them away from him. “I don't want that tonight.”

  “Okay, but...” He sat up. Layke could see that he was doing his best to conceal his anger, his disappointment, but a flicker of it passed across his brow. “Can you even remember the last time you did?”

  “I... I don't know,” she said defensively. “I work really hard, I don't always have the time. Sometimes I want a foot massage that doesn't lead to sex.”

  “Five months.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Five months ago was the last time we had sex.”

  It couldn't have been that long ago, Layke mused, confounded. A moment of mental calculation told her that he was right: it had been five months.

  “I can't believe you've been counting.”

  “Well I'm sorry, but after the first month of course I was going to start taking noticing.”

  “You know I've had a lot on my mind these past few months, what with the exams and everything. Sex has been the last thing on my mind.”