by Heidi Lowe
“Detective Owen, you look like you've seen a ghost,” Willa said in a teasing voice. “Bet you're disappointed that I'm still here. You know, me being a dangerous criminal and all.”
The other people in the room became irrelevant then, as the two women focused only on each other. Everything that Layke wanted to say was right there in her eyes, but from the playful, mocking way Willa was staring at her, she could tell the message wasn't getting through. How she wished she could be alone with her. First she would scream at her for even suggesting such an awful thing, then she would kiss her because... because she'd never wanted to kiss anyone so much before. She was afraid she would shove everyone aside, dash over to her bed and plant one on her lips in front of them.
“Come on, Miss di Blasio, the Miami Police Department knows you di Blasios have nine lives,” Corman said with his usual grin. “You guys wanna give us a couple of minutes with the lady? We'd like to ask a few routine questions.”
With the exception of Guy, who always looked approachable, the other three men wore the type of hard expressions filled with years of bitterness that all criminals or wary citizens wore when the police were in their presence.
“Not really,” Noah said.
Corman laughed in his casual way. “Actually, it wasn't a request, son.”
Noah went to respond, no doubt in a less than polite way, but Willa stepped in. “It's all right, guys, I'll be fine. If they get rough with me, I'll shout, then I can take the cute little redhead while you guys take the old guy.” She smiled mischievously, winked at Corman, who seemed to be enjoying this as much as she was.
Layke wasn't smiling. And when the men left the room, she hung back as far as she could and kept quiet while Corman grilled Willa.
“Let's just cut to the chase. You know who did it, so why don't you save us all time and tell us who it was?”
“I don't know who it was,” Willa said with a straight face.
“We both know that's a lie. And I know how this stuff works: you tell us you don't have a clue, then a few days later the person you didn't have a clue about ends up face down in a ditch somewhere, and you don't have a clue about that, either.”
Willa laughed. “Sounds like the plot to a really good movie.”
“Okay, so you're saying you have no idea who was behind this?”
“A lot of people want me dead. What can I say, it goes with the surname.”
While kissing her would have been gratifying, strangling her would also have been good, Layke thought. Why was she doing this, playing games at such a serious time? Someone had just tried to kill her, had killed two others in the process, and she didn't seem to care. Was she a sociopath, or was this just an act? Either way, Layke wasn't impressed.
“Let's pretend for a minute that I believe any of that. Can you tell us anything about the car the shooters were driving?”
“It was brown, had seen better days.” She shrugged as best she could, while wincing. “I know nothing about cars, sorry.”
“Did you happen to catch the number plate?”
“No, I was too busy trying not to get shot.” She tried to move her arm then grimaced. “Which, as you can see, I didn't do a great job of. Little Johnny wasn't as lucky as me, though.”
“The man that died, was he one of yours?” Corman asked, for the first time taking an interest in something she was saying.
Willa's face became characterized with wistfulness, losing its cheerfulness. “He saved my life.”
“What were you doing in the playground? And how many people knew you would be there?”
“We wanted to play on the swings,” she said, back to her old self. “It's very therapeutic.”
Corman sighed. “Was there anyone else with you that may have seen something?”
“You should probably talk to my brother Guy and the other men with him. They were close by. Maybe they got a glimpse of a face.”
“Oh, I doubt that very much. No one saw anything, right?” Corman said sarcastically. He turned to Layke. “I'm gonna go talk to the boys. You stay here, see if you can get something useful out of this one. Maybe she needs a woman's touch to get her to open up.” He shrugged.
Willa laughed. “A woman's touch is about the only thing that could get me to open up. You know me too well, detective.”
He left the room. Left them alone.
Layke bit her lip, her eyes on Willa; Willa's eyes on her.
“What's wrong, detective, not interested in giving me a woman's touch anymore? And you were so good at it before.”
Layke's glare could have frozen Willa's blood, it was that cold. “Who shot you?” she demanded.
“I already told your partner, I don't know.”
“You do know. Was it Ambrisi?”
“Why do you want to know, so you can give them a medal, or scold them for not doing a better job?”
“For just one second can't you take anything seriously?” Layke blew up. Her temple throbbed, her cheeks flooded with color. “Someone just tried to kill you and all you want to do is joke about it.”
“I can assure you that none of this is a joke to me.”
“Then tell me who did it and let me do my goddamn job!”
Willa kept quiet, looked elsewhere, away from Layke's penetrative, scathing glare.
Layke walked over to the bed. “I hope your arm hurts like hell,” she said through gritted teeth. “I hope it hurts for weeks, every time you try to move it, every time you go in the shower, every time you laugh or smile.”
“Wow, so now we're finally seeing the real you.”
Layke ignored her. “In fact, I hope you can never use your arm the way you used it before, and you have to step back from this life that you're so hellbent on living. I hope that no one takes you seriously again.”
“I would still be able to use my right arm, and my hand, and my fingers...”
Layke begged her eyes not to betray her, not to allow even a single teardrop to fall; because she felt them close, felt her nose itching as it did when she was about to cry. Now wasn't the time, not with Corman and the rest of the di Blasio clan a few meters away on the other side of the door.
“And I hope... I hope you feel the way I felt when I heard that there were two fatalities and you could have been one of them. I hope you feel that every day.” She went to walk away, but Willa's tight grip on her arm stopped her in her tracks.
“How did you feel?” Her eyes were big and expectant, no animosity in them.
“Like... like I wished I'd never met you.” Layke yanked her arm away and hurried out of the room. Even without the tears she suspected that Willa saw exactly what lay in her heart. How could she not when it was written all over her face, punctuated in her words, broken in her voice?
SIXTEEN
Being an “invalid” wasn't anywhere near as much fun as some people made out. At least Willa didn't think so. The perks associated with it were that people did everything you asked in order to make you happy. But seeing as people did everything she asked all the time anyway, she didn't get any benefits from being in this state.
“Do you want another drink?”
“Something to eat?”
“Do you need me to open a window?”
The men in her life meant well, but they weren't helping her. Within an hour, their helpfulness had turned into a hindrance and she just wanted them gone.
“God, would you quit fussing over me? I got shot in the arm, I didn't suffer organ failure!” she grumbled, batting Noah's hands away as he went to fix her pillow, despite her not asking him to. She'd been home an hour. Having spent the night in hospital, it felt good to be back in her own bed, surrounded by her own things. Having her home filled with deferential do-gooders was sucking all of the enjoyment out of it.
“He's just trying to make you feel more comfortable,” Guy chuckled. “You'd be pissed if no one made a fuss.”
“Trust me, I wouldn't,” she said drily. “And please tell me no one told Mom about this.
I couldn't bear it if she turned up now. She'd never let me out of her sight again.”
“We're not that stupid, Willa,” Guy said.
Ghost appeared at the door, carrying a tray with fruit, homemade sandwiches and apple juice. He set it on her lap.
“Is that what you were doing in there? I didn't ask for this,” she said, while biting into one of the sandwiches. She hadn't eaten in hours and was faint from hunger, but she worried that sharing this with her troops would have resulted in them cooking everything she had in her refrigerator, or ordering a bunch of stuff from all the fast food places in the neighborhood. Nevertheless, she ate with gratitude.
She didn't hear when Trent arrived – Asher must have let him in. She had just finished her sandwiches when he came into her room.
“Sorry I only just got here. I didn't have my phone and got the message this morning. How are you?”
“I'll live,” she said dismissively. She had to hold back a laugh as she watched him feign concern. She wasn't buying any of it. His sentiment rang so false she wondered why he went to the trouble of trying to fake it.
“Sorry to hear about Little Johnny. I know you guys were close,” he went on. “I'll arrange a service for him, invite his family. Remember him how he was.”
“Already taken care of,” Guy said.
“Well, what's the next move?” Trent scratched his overgrown beard. “This is where we draw the line, right?”
It never took him long to get onto the subject of revenge or business; they seemed to be the only things he thought about. Willa wondered how his life would function when all of his enemies were dead and gone, and he had all the money and power in the world. What would he be then?
“I haven't really had time to plot my revenge, Trent. You know, what with being shot in the arm, losing a good friend... It kind of slipped my mind.”
“Well we're not going to let him get away with it, are we? It's bad enough we've waited this long to strike back.” He shot her a reproachful look as though all of the world's problems were her doing. “Something has to be done.”
“And I fully intend to do something,” Willa said, feeling exhausted. “But making a move now would be foolish. They'll expect it. So we wait.”
“For how long?” Trent asked skeptically.
“For as long as it takes.” She handed her tray back to Ghost, who happily took it away for her. “Why are you so sure it was Ambrisi anyway?”
“Who else would it be?” Noah answered instead, then bit his lower lip as though aware that he'd spoken out of turn.
“He's right,” Trent said. “Who else could it have been? Gunmen turn up at the exact spot, at the exact time you're supposed to meet with the Italians. Seems pretty cut and dry to me.”
Indeed it was, so why, all of a sudden, was she being attacked by niggling doubt? It was insignificant, granted, but enough to make her think, to consider another possibility. She'd been so sure in the hospital, dogged in her pursuit of vengeance, that she could have walked out of that place high on painkillers, a thousand bullets lodged in her arm, and hunted Ambrisi down. All signs pointed to him, she realized that, but at the same time – criminal to criminal – she wanted to believe he was smarter than that, to know that a hit against the monarch wouldn't go without reprisal. Her father didn't do business with morons.
“Either way, I'm in no state to do anything now. And I'd prefer to look the bastard in the eye and hear him admit everything before I send him from this world.”
Trent let out a frustrated tut. “What will that achieve? Let us handle it. You've kept your hands clean all this time, so just keep doing that.”
She sensed that her brother's choice of words to her these days, since inheriting the throne, were purposely snide, chosen to remind her that she'd never been on the front line, unlike him and the others. That was why even when they weren't arguing, they were always fighting, constantly at odds. As if being top dog wasn't exhausting enough.
“He tried to take my life; I should be the one to take his.” The air of finality in her voice signaled the end of that discussion.
He waited until he deemed it safe before he moved on to the other topic closest to his heart. That, too, Willa saw coming. “Bedrosian's still interested in the gear...”
It was as if the whole room held its breath, waiting for Willa's reaction, for her to explode like she usually did when there was talk of the Armenians. Everyone watched her closely, ready to dash from the room in case she hurled something in their direction.
Willa sighed long and hard. An Armenian alliance was an inevitability she'd merely been postponing. It hurt to admit it, but now they really were out of options. Once you were out of options, it made you vulnerable. Perhaps it was the fact that her arm was stinging why she couldn't picture an alternative way out; or perhaps there was no alternative.
“Tell that Armenian bastard we'll do the deal his way.” Her voice was raspy and reluctant when she spoke. “Why does it feel like I've just sold my soul to the devil?”
“This means I'll be handling their account going forward,” Trent said.
“I know what it means,” she grumbled. “Do the damn deal. And hope to God I'm wrong about that guy. For all our sakes.”
There was a soft chill in the night air when Layke stepped out of her car and approached the luxury apartment complex. She stood in front of the doorway entry system but didn't press anything. She knew the number, that wasn't her issue. Being there at all was what made her hesitant. It was a big risk, some might have even said huge, which far outweighed the reward. She still hadn't decided what the reward would be. She still hadn't decided what she would say when they came face to face again.
The deliberation could have gone on indefinitely had a resident not come out a couple of minutes later, leaving the door open for her to gain entry. Then she rode the elevator to the top floor, biting her nails the whole way, her nerves making her nauseous. No answer came on the first couple of knocks, so she tried a third time, more impatient with her fist on the wooden door. Finally she heard it unlocking. Willa's very brief expression of surprise quickly turned to one of bitterness. She stared back at Layke, holding on to the door with her good arm, wearing a white tank top and black shorts. Her hair was wrapped up in a messy bun on top of her head. She'd never looked so beautiful to Layke. Even the bandage brought a certain sexy quality to her.
She stepped aside silently, letting Layke enter the apartment.
“How's your arm?” Layke opened with.
“It hurts like a bitch! But that's what you wanted, right?”
“I didn't really mean that, Willa.” Layke followed her into the bedroom. “I was just angry.”
Willa climbed onto her bed, laughing bitterly. “You know, if I was a conspiracy theorist I would think it was you in that car, trying to end me.”
“That's bullshit and you know it!” Layke exploded, outraged and insulted. “How could you even suggest something so... so disgusting?”
“How could you say those things to me?” Willa shouted back.
“Because you're so goddamn stubborn, you think you're invincible, you think you're bulletproof. But you're not. And you're too damn proud to admit that you're in over your head.”
“What the hell do you know about it, Layke?” She spat her name. “I screw you a couple of times and now you think you know me?” Another bitter laugh. “You don't know shit!”
Layke gulped back her chagrin. This wasn't how she'd envisioned this going; but now that they had begun, all the anger and pain she'd felt upon hearing about the shooting was coming to the fore. This was an argument they had to have.
“I know that you're a scared little girl walking around in her father's overgrown shoes, and you're falling on your face.”
Willa shot up from the bed, squared up to Layke, her eyes filled with fire. “It seems like I'm not the only one trying to follow in my daddy's footsteps. Be careful, detective, your daddy was lucky back in '95 – you might not be.”
At the time of the attempt on her father's life, she was twelve and they'd kept most of the details from her. In fact, it wasn't until she'd reached eighteen that she heard the real story, that he'd been shot twice on the job, lost his partner. This was a day before he was due to testify against Maurice di Blasio. Everyone knew Maurice had ordered the hit, but no one could prove it. Her father should have been dead; only a miracle had kept him alive. If the di Blasios had nine lives, her father had twice as many. And here they were, the only daughters of the two men who'd been feuding for more than twenty years, in a feud of their own.
“I'm not afraid of you, Willa,” she lied. Saying it didn't make it so, but it did make her feel better to hear the words. “You make love to me and cuddle me one day, then threaten me the next. But I already saw the side of you that counts.” She saw Willa's eyes grow watery, heard the staggered breathing while she attempted to maintain her ire.
“I don't want you here,” she said carefully.
Layke held her gaze. “Too bad. Tell me who shot you and let me do my job.”
“I wouldn't tell you even if I did. Get out of my apartment.”
“Make me.”
Willa only glared at her with eyes that had darkened in her rage. She looked down at her wounded arm, then back up at Layke as though assessing whether or not she could. Finally, she dropped back onto the bed.
“You can't help me, and I don't want your help. I don't need it.”
“You can't handle it yourself. Jesus, what the hell is wrong with you? Your friend is dead, you're sitting here with a gunshot wound in your arm, and you still think you've got this under control?”
“I might not now, but I will have.”
The determination in Willa's face frightened Layke. Goosebumps ran across her arms. The di Blasios' way of handling a problem was to shoot at it.