by Heidi Lowe
“And I get that, but it's been six weeks since you passed, since you became a detective, and...”
“And I should put out like a good little girl, is that it?”
“No! Come on, Layke. I didn't mean it like that.” He got up, flustered, combing his hands through his hair, messing it up. “At some point we're going to have to get back to being a couple, doing what couples do, and that includes being intimate.”
“Where are you going?” she asked, watching him snatch his jacket off the peg.
“It's best I stay at my place tonight.” He gave a snort. “My place. Seven years we've been together and we still live in separate homes.” He shook his head then stormed from her apartment. She didn't bother trying to stop him.
It gave her no pleasure seeing Dustin hurt or furious with her, because for all their relationship's faults, he was still her best friend. That was the biggest problem. She loved him like a friend, like a brother, because they'd been together so long. But she hadn't been attracted to him in years. She could have blamed it on his stupid hairstyle, or the way he would throw out the shower gel when there was still some in the bottle, before opening a new one. She could have blamed it on all of his little quirks, but the truth was the attraction had waned a long time ago. And even that hadn't been based on anything physical.
At thirty-eight, six years her senior, he'd been ready to settle down and start a family for five years, hence the engagement ring. She couldn't help feeling that she was leading him on, taking away his good years from another woman who did want him the way he wanted her, Layke. But there was no easy way of telling your fiance it wasn't that you didn't want to be touched, just that you didn't want to be touched by him.
THREE
The visiting room at the prison had a distinct smell to it that stayed with you long after you left. It smelled of lost liberty, disenfranchisement, hopelessness. That was the impression Willa got whenever she visited.
The families and friends of the prisoners sat at their tables, waiting for their loved ones to be released for their forty-five minute snatch of freedom and glimpse of the outside world. Most of them looked dejected, Willa noticed. Many had traveled a long way for this visit. Or perhaps, like her, many despised the atmosphere, felt as though the prison term extended to them, and wanted to be anywhere else but there.
Beside her, Noah fidgeted.
“Stop it,” she ordered, hitting him on the arm. “Do you want people to think we're smuggling drugs in here or something?”
“Sorry, I just hate being here,” he said, and began tapping on the table instead.
“It's not a walk in the park for me either. And imagine how it is for him.”
A couple of minutes later, the security door opened, and the inmates filtered out, their faces lighting up as their eyes landed on their visitors. Hugs and kisses abounded. For a few seconds the illusion of normality was allowed, before the officers ordered separation.
Willa and Noah peered anxiously at the door, waiting for him to come out. It had been four months since Willa's last visit, nine since Noah's.
“You've got some admirers,” Noah said through the corner of his mouth.
Willa didn't even turn to look. She was fully aware of what happened when she came to places like this. The lecherous looks from the inmates made her skin crawl the first time, but now she was used to them. They never went on for very long, however.
“They must be new guys. The others know better,” she said. Then she stood up, hitting Noah to prompt him to do the same.
The last person to strut out was a huge, muscular, fair-skinned black man, sporting long cornrows – neat as though they'd been done the night before. In a place like this his great looks would have been a hindrance, had he not been 260-pounds of pure, natural muscle, with the type of prowl that would send a crowd of people scattering and running for cover.
The man took a slow stroll over to Willa and Noah, stopped in front of them, his hard expression unchanged. Two of the men who had been leering at Willa promptly ceased the moment he looked in their direction. Then he smiled, and Willa smiled too, and before she knew it he was crushing her in a loving embrace, lifting her off the floor. She let out an excited shriek.
The guards admonished him for the bodily contact, which he ignored. He let her go in his own time, then gave Noah a hug too.
“Every time I see you, you're prettier,” he said, smiling with pride as he checked Willa out.
“And every time I see you, you've added an extra ten pounds,” Willa said. They all sat down. Noah still had a nervous look about him.
“What else is there to do in this place?” the man said.
Three years ago, when he'd first been convicted of involuntary manslaughter after an armed robbery went bad, he was twig-thin, a threat to no one. Couldn't even lift a set of dumbbells without tipping over. He hadn't gone in looking like a criminal; many didn't. But the place had altered him. It was as if the grime of the walls clutched onto the prisoners, seeping into their very being, turning them into everything the place represented.
“Little man,” he said to Noah, ruffling his hair. “So you decided to come see me, huh? How you been?”
“Good,” Noah said quietly. Silently he wondered to himself how old he would be when this guy stopped referring to him as Little Man. He was twenty-four, for God's sake. He feared, with their thirteen-year age gap, this was a nickname he would take well into old age, if either of them lived that long.
“How are you, Marley?” Willa asked. She noticed a little cut above his right eyebrow, and it gave her concern. She knew he could take care of himself in there, but it never stopped her from worrying.
“Can't complain.” He shrugged. “Nothing changes in this place.”
“Has your mom been to see you recently?”
“She came last month. Brought my boys.” When he spoke about this, there was a melancholy that flickered past, both Willa and Noah noticed it. But it didn't last long.
“They're big now,” Noah said. “I heard Carlton's starting high school this year.”
Marley nodded, smiling proudly.
“Dad's funeral was last week.” As soon as she said it, Willa was prepared for the shred of happiness to vanish from Marley's face. It always did when she mentioned their father.
“How was it?” he asked stiffly.
“Fine, for a funeral. You should have been there, Marley. He would have wanted you there.”
Marley sighed. “Don't start with that again, sis. He didn't want me there any more than I wanted to be there.”
“He tried to make things right before he died. You denied his visitation request. He wasn't even well enough to come out here, but he was going to.”
“Willa, I know you didn't come all the way here to get on my ass about Maurice. If you did, we might as well end this visit now.” His voice became harsher, raised, his expression much more hostile in his agitation.
But Willa didn't let up. “It was part of the reason, yes. Whatever differences you guys had, you're his firstborn, Marley. You should have been there.” She folded her arms, looking defiant. “And, quite frankly, I think it was selfish of you to miss it. I know you would have been given furlough.”
Noah looked at his siblings in turn, his trepidation growing. They were two of the most stubborn people he had ever met, never backing down. Only their father had been worse.
“Willa, enough already,” he said, putting a hand on her arm.
“I'm selfish?” Marley demanded, laughing without humor. “The man does nothing for me my whole life, and then just when he's about to die, he wants to try and make things right. Thirty-seven years too damn late.”
The thought did cross her mind that she was in fact being the selfish one. Marley didn't owe Maurice anything, and she had no right guilting him out about not coming to the funeral. Not someone in her position. She'd grown up with Maurice, the doting father. Grown up in a happy marriage with parents who loved each other. Marley never
got that chance. Born just too soon, to the wrong woman – a stripper who Maurice was fooling around with before he met the love of his life and went on to father four of her children. A fresh start, a new family, an all but forgotten son. Sure he gave him financial support, but not the support he needed. It came as no surprise to anyone that Marley called him by his first name, and took his mother's maiden name.
“It wasn't for him, Marley. It was for us,” she said with real passion, so much that Marley's face softened. “We needed you there.”
Nobody spoke for a while, just listened to the jumbled conversations of the other groups, the lightning-speed Spanish mixed with English. It all sounded melodic.
And then Marley broke the silence. “You seeing anyone new?” he asked Willa. “Anyone with a hot sister who likes convicts?”
It broke the tension, allowing all three of them to laugh.
“You know me, hoes in every state,” Willa joked, cringing at her awful attempt at ghetto-speak, and at the use of the word 'hoe'. She had complete respect for women, and her brothers knew that. Still, it made her feel funny even jokingly using the term. “I see Lady Blue's still doing your hair. Makes me wonder what you give him in return.” She wiggled her eyebrow suggestively.
“Hey, don't even joke like that,” Marley said, but in good humor. “The old man would turn in his grave if he thought he had two gay children.”
They chatted a little more about women – their favorite pastime – and about the appeal against Marley's conviction. Everyone was able to relax and enjoy each other's company. But eventually Willa knew she had to get to the other reason for her visit.
“Big Charlie's just been sent down for twenty years.” She leaned in closer, lowering her voice. “Word is he's being transferred here next week. He won't be alone. Four others are coming with him.”
“That's gonna be a hit to Ambrisi, losing one of his capos and some of his crew in one go like that. But what's that got to do with me?”
“There might be some blowback from the Italians,” Noah contributed. “They're pissed about what went down a couple of weeks ago.”
“You mean the exchange?” He watched his brother and sister nod gravely, then added, “How pissed?”
“Pissed enough to come after anyone associated with us. You're still a di Blasio where it counts, Marley.” It gave her the same amount of displeasure reminding him of that as it did telling him that his life might be in danger, simply because she knew he hated the reminder.
“Italians don't have any sway in here, you know that. Ain't nothin' me and some of the boys can't handle.”
“Just watch your back anyway, man,” Noah said. “They want blood. They lost a lot of guys. It was self-defense, but they won't see it like that.”
Marley frowned. “Self-defense? Over a simple exchange? That must mean they tried to rob you. I don't trust any motherfucker, but that's not usually how the Italians roll.”
“That's what I thought too.” Willa shrugged. “Guess we must have underestimated them. Gunner's dead.”
“The Bullet? Ah man, I liked that guy. Crazy motherfucker.” Marley shook his head. “Who arranged the drop?”
“Trent,” Noah said.
“Of course.” Marley smiled knowingly, though bitterly. “And let me guess, none of you were there to see it. Not even Guy?”
“Ghost and Asher were there. What are you getting at?” Willa questioned.
“That's why the old man didn't want him to take over. He's a hothead who thinks with his gun. Are you sure it went down like he said?”
Willa and Noah exchanged perplexed looks. They'd never been given a reason to question Trent's word.
“Why would he lie?” Noah asked.
“Who knows why he does what he does.” Marley shrugged. “I'm just talking out loud. I told you, I don't trust anyone, not even blood.”
“This really is the last thing I need.” Willa let out an exasperated breath, combing her hand through her long, dark brown locks. “And we've got the cops sniffing around again. Dad kept things so quiet, and my first week in charge I've already got this mess hanging over my head.”
“It's not all that bad though, right?” Noah offered, his voice chirpy. “The female detective who came to the graveside, the redhead, she was pretty hot.”
Willa tutted and cut her little brother a look. “It's always bad when the pigs start sniffing around. I don't care if she looks like Cindy Crawford in her heyday, she's still a cop. I don't think this stuff will go away easily either.”
“You got this, sis. Hey, and if you can't outsmart them, just use your charm. You could get anyone to do anything, girl, you know that,” Marley assured her.
She didn't feel very optimistic.
FOUR
Layke sat at her desk and deliberated. She'd been doing so for the past week, unable to think of much else besides her new case, and her theory. Something was bugging her, but no one else in her department shared the same concern. She bit the end of her pen, deep in thought, and didn't notice when her coworker arrived.
“Sorry it took so long. There was a line like you wouldn't believe. They've got a twenty-five percent off sale on everything.” Detective Adriana Velazquez set a steaming Styrofoam cup of coffee and a sticky-sweet bear claw in front of Layke. When she got no response, not even an acknowledgment of her arrival, she waved a hand in Layke's face. “Where are you, woman?”
“What? Oh, sorry,” Layke said, returning to Earth. She looked at her friend and colleague, a pretty Latina woman who'd joined the force the same time as her, and had made detective a year before her.
“I got you a coffee.” Velazquez chuckled. “You all right? I know I've been asking you that every day this week, and I know what you're gonna say–”
“I'm fine.”
Velazquez mouthed it at the same time Layke spoke it, then laughed at her friend, before sitting in the desk beside her. “I didn't realize how much I'd missed this pensive silence until now. It's great to have you here.”
Layke sipped her coffee and let the hot liquid soothe her. “I've been thinking,” she said after several delectable sips.
“Uh-oh, that's never a good sign.” She bit into her own bear claw, gave an appreciative moan and waited for her friend to elaborate.
“The di Blasios have always maintained harmonious relationships with their business partners. That's how they've managed to evade prosecution. Until now. So what's changed?”
“Well, I can think of one thing: the big guy clocked out.”
“Exactly,” Layke said enthusiastically. “A few days after his death is announced, a bunch of dead Italians turn up in a warehouse. That can't be coincidental. Either the Italians tried to make a move because they perceived a weakness in the leadership, or someone in camp di Blasio wanted to go after them all along.”
Velazquez pondered this for awhile, reclining in her chair. “Okay, so how does that help us? We still don't have anything concrete tying the family to the shootout, besides the stiff who used to work for them.”
Layke's enthusiasm nearly launched her from her seat, her eyes wide and wild. “Don't you see? If they're not selling to the Italians, they must have another buyer set up, one that Maurice wouldn't have approved of. I heard he was really picky about the people he worked with.”
Velazquez's frown deepened. “I still don't see–”
“All we have to do is keep tabs on any new relationships the family have forged recently. Sooner or later they're going to have to offload those guns. If we know who the new buyers are, we'll be one step ahead.”
“You're suggesting we put surveillance on the family? All of them?”
“Nope, just one person. The one running the show.”
Velazquez looked at her, skeptical. “Trent di Blasio is one of the hardest people to touch. He's like Teflon - nothing sticks to that cabron.”
“I wasn't talking about Trent.”
“You're not still convinced the girl's in charge are you?” Ve
lazquez said, amusement in her voice.
“I'm more convinced than ever before. You didn't see her, Adriana.”
“I didn't have to. Everyone knows Trent was next in line. It's like passing over William and Harry and giving the British throne to their little sister, if they had one. It's crazy.”
The look of pure tenacity on Layke's face suggested that she thought the idea anything but. And she'd had a long time to consider it. No matter how much reason they tried to make her listen to, she couldn't drop the idea.
“No more crazy than anything else that family does.”
They were all familiar with the family's history (though she knew better than most), and knew all about the crimes and killings they were said to have done. Why was it so hard to imagine Maurice would have made a move like this?
“When the deputy chief arrives, I'm going to bring it up, see if we can get a tail on Willa di Blasio.”
Velazquez gave her a sidelong look. “Just make sure to tell him this is your theory and yours alone.”
“Chicken!” Layke teased, and threw a paperclip at her.
Layke tucked in her shirt, checked her reflection in the window of the deputy chief's office, thankful that the blinds were closed. She pulled her ponytail tighter, took a deep breath then knocked on the door. No answer came from within, but she did hear shuffling and whispering.
She knocked again. “Sir?”
“Just a minute.” He sounded slightly out of breath.
Layke rolled her eyes. She felt like barging in and catching him in the compromising situation she knew he was currently trying to get out of. If it wasn't for the fact that she had no desire to see him with his pants down, she would have opened that door.
Moments later, a pretty brunette strolled out of the office, giving her a small and embarrassed smile. She looked no older than thirty. She did a double take of Layke, looked slightly confused, but didn't stop.
“You can come in now.”