Covet fa-1

by J. R. Ward

  “I have to head in,” she said, nodding at his car. “You're blocking the way to the parking lot.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sure.” He hesitated.

  The question he needed to ask her jammed in his throat, blocked by a conviction of not-here-not-now, and propelled by a whole lot of but-when. “I have to go,” she said.

  “What did I say to you last night? In the locker room. When I, you know…” As she blanched, he wanted to hit himself. “I mean—”

  “I'm sorry, but I really have to go.” Shit, he shouldn't have brought it up.

  With a silent curse, he bounced his fist once on the roof as a good-bye and headed for his car. Back in the M6, he put the engine in first, released the clutch, and eased out of her way, turning around slowly as she parked nose-first to the club and got out of her Camry.

  The owner opened the rear door as she came up to it, and the guy scanned the parking lot, as if he were watching out for her. When his eyes got to the M6, he nodded as if he'd known all along Vin was there, and suddenly Vin felt his temples sting, pressure building in his head as if something were pushing into him. All at once, his thoughts scrambled like a deck of cards pushed off a table, flying off in all directions, scattering faces up and faces down.

  As soon as it began, it was over, his mind righted, everything from his aces to his jokers back in order.

  While he winced and rubbed his head, Trez smiled tightly and said something to Marie-Terese, which caused her to look over her shoulder at the M6. Before the two of them ducked inside, she raised her hand in a little wave and then the door shut behind them.

  Rain started to fall and Vin's wipers came on automatically, sweeping up and down, up and down.

  His corporate offices were not far from here, only five minutes, and there was plenty of work to do there: Architectural plans to review. Permit applications to approve before they were submitted. Offers to buy and sell land or houses that needed to be countered. Inspections to delegate. Pissing contests between contractors to settle.

  Plenty of shit for him to do.

  Except evidently, he'd rather wait here like a dog for her to come out again. Pathetic.

  Vin took off, leaving the Iron Mask and going toward the skyscrapers by the river. The building had his offices in was one of the newest and tallest in Caldwell, and when he got to it, he swiped his access card and went down into the underground garage. After leaving the M6 in his designated space, he rode up in the elevator, passing floors of law offices and accounting firms and big-name insurance companies.

  The ding for the forty-fourth floor sounded, the doors opened, and he got off and strode by the reception desk. Up high on the dense black wall behind it, done in golden letters and lit from below, was the name of his business: the dipietro Group.

  Group. What a lie that was. Even though some twenty employees had desks here, and he had hundreds of contractors and workmen on his payroll every week, there was him and that was it.

  Walking down the plush black carpet to his office, he felt stronger with every stride. This business of his was something he knew about and controlled…He'd built the whole damn thing up from the ground, just like he did his houses, until the corporation was better and bigger than anything like it.

  As he came into his corner office, he flipped the light switch and all of the tigerwood paneling he'd handpicked glowed like sun rays. In the middle of his black desk, there was a legal-size manila envelope on the blotter, and he thought, Ah, yes, Tom Williams always worked as hard as he did.

  Vin sat down and opened the flap, sliding out the folded land study and approved plot plan of the three parcels of a hundred or so acres he had just closed on. The project that unified the separate farms was going to be a masterpiece, one hundred fifty luxury homes in what was currently horse country in Connecticut. The goal was to attract Stamford commuters who were willing to drive forty-five minutes to work so they could live like they were Greenwich high rollers.

  He was going to start demolition and construction as soon as the bids from contractors were where he wanted them to be. The land was perfectly sound, with a low water table that meant owners weren't going to have to worry about their wine cellars getting a bath every spring, and he was going to run water and electric and sewer in through an interlocking underground system. First move, as was the case with the bluff property, was going to be tearing down all the old farmhouses and barns, but he'd decided to leave the stone marking walls in place to keep some character—provided they didn't get in the way.

  He was feeling good about all of it, especially for the price he'd gotten everything for. Times were tough and his offers more than fair. Besides, he'd sent Tom to do the negotiating with the local Realtors, which meant those poor fuckers hadn't stood a chance.

  Tom was his baby-faced killer. The guy was a Harvard MBA with a vicious drive—who happened to look like he was twelve. Sweet-as-apple-pie Tom had no problem posing as an environmental conservationist and making unactionable, verbal commitments to preserve land that was in fact going to be developed.

  Well, he had no problem now. In the beginning, Vin had had to coach him into it, but as soon as the money had really started rolling in, the guy had gotten with the program and then some.

  The pair of them had done the dog and pony show so many times, it was practically rote, with Tom going in and snowing the prospects with tree-hugger charm while Vin marshaled the money and got the permit and contracting side of things worked out. It was precisely how they'd gotten the property on the Hudson River, that quartet of old hunting cabins yielding the ten acres he was putting his grand house on.

  When it came to his palace, he could have built anywhere, but he chose that peninsula because of the golden rule in real estate: location, location, location. Unless an earthquake shaved California off the West Coast, or every polar ice cap in Alaska melted, they weren't making more waterfront, and you had to think of resale.

  Sure as shit in another couple of years, he was going to want something bigger and better than what he was building now and that was another thing he was coaching Baby-face Tom on: Tom was the one who was buying the duplex at the Commodore.

  Nothing like bringing the next generation along.

  Vin picked up the phone and called his lieutenant, prepared to advance the ball even farther with the Connecticut project.

  * * *

  “Thank you, ma'am. I think that's all we need right now.”

  Marie-Terese frowned and glanced at Trez, who was sitting next to her on one of the club's velvet couches. As he uncrossed his legs as if he were getting ready to stand up, he seemed utterly unsurprised at how little time the questioning had taken—almost as if he'd prepped the police officer into keeping it short and sweet.

  She looked back at the cop. “That's it?”

  The officer closed his notebook and rubbed his temple like it hurt. “Detective de la Cruz is in charge of the investigation and he might have more questions later, but you're not a suspect or anything.” He nodded at Trez. “Thank you for cooperating.”

  Trez smiled a little. “I'm sorry those security cameras weren't working. Like I've said, I've been meaning to get them fixed for months now. I have a log of malfunctions that I'd be happy to show you, by the way.”

  “Well, I'll take a look at it, but…” The man rubbed his left eye. “But as you say, you have nothing to hide.”

  “Not a thing. Let me see her out first and then we'll go to my office?”

  “Sure. I'll wait here.”

  As Marie-Terese walked off with Trez and they headed down the back hallway, she said quietly, “I can't believe they aren't going any further with this. I don't know why I even needed to come.”

  Trez opened the rear door and put his hand on her shoulder. “I told you I would take care of things.”

  “And you really did.” Her eyes searched the parking lot and she hesitated in the doorway. “So you saw that Vin came by.”

  “That his name?”

 
; “It's what he said it was.”

  “He makes you uneasy.”

  On a lot of levels. “You don't suppose he and his friend—”

  “Killed those guys? Nope.”

  “How can you be so sure?” She got her car keys out of her pocketbook. “I mean, you don't know them. They could have gone back and…”

  Except even as she said the words, she didn't believe them: She couldn't imagine Vin and his friend being the killer or killers. They'd fought with those boys, sure, but they'd done that to protect her and had stopped before they seriously hurt them. Besides, Vin had been with her right afterward in the locker room.

  Although God only knew exactly when the shootings had occurred.

  Trez leaned in and gently stroked her cheek. “Stop it. You don't have to worry about Vin or his buddy. I get feelings about people and I'm always right.”

  She frowned. “I don't believe those security cameras are broken. You'd never put up with that—

  “Those two guys took care of you when I wasn't here. And so I take care of them.” Trez put his arm around her and walked her over to her car. “You see your Vin again, tell him not to worry about anything. I've got his back.”

  Marie-Terese blinked in the bright cold sunlight. “He's not mine.”

  “Of course not.”

  She stared up at Trez. “How can you be so certain—”

  “Stop worrying and trust me. When it comes to you, that man's heart is not dark.”

  After everything she had been through, Marie-Terese had learned not to put her faith in what was said to her. What she listened to was the security alarm in the center of her chest—and as she looked into Trez's eyes, her inner warning bell was utterly silent: He knew exactly what he was talking about. She didn't have a clue how, but then Trez had ways, as they said…ways of finding things out and fixing problems and taking care of business.

  So yeah, the police weren't going to see anything he didn't want them to. And Vin hadn't killed those two boys.

  Unfortunately that pair of convictions gave her only a measure of relief. He's coming for you…

  Trez unlocked her door for her and then gave her back her keys. “I want you to take tonight off. This is tough stuff.”

  She got in, but before starting the engine, she glanced up and spoke her greatest fear. “Trez, what if those killings have something to do with me. What if someone saw them with me, someone other than Vin? What if…they were shot because of me.”

  Her boss's eyes grew sharp, like he knew every single thing she had never told him. “And who in your life would do such a thing.”

  He's coming for you…

  God, Trez knew about Mark. He had to. And yet Marie-Terese forced herself to say, “No one. I don't know anyone who would do that.”

  Trez's stare narrowed like he didn't appreciate the lie, but was willing to respect it. “Well, you decide to answer that in a different way, you can come to me for help. And even if you decide to pull out of town, I need to know if that's the why.”

  “Okay,” she heard herself say.

  “Good.”

  “But I'll be back at ten tonight.” She pulled her seat belt across her chest. “I need to work.”

  “I won't argue with you, but I don't agree with you. Just remember, you see your Vin, you tell him I got his back.”

  “He's not mine.”

  “Right. Drive carefully.”

  Marie-Terese shut her door, forced the Camry to start, and turned around. As she came out on Trade, she put her hand in the pocket of her fleece.

  Vin diPietro's card was exactly where she'd put it after she'd found it tucked in her duffel, and as she got his information out, she thought of the way he'd looked this morning with his beaten up face and his smart, concerned eyes.

  It felt odd to realize she was frightened more by what he might know, and not of what he might be.

  The thing was, she was a Scully kind of girl, a nonbeliever in all that XFiles-esque stuff. She didn't believe in horoscopes, much less…much less whatever could turn a grown man into some kind of channel for…yeah, whatever. She didn't believe in that.

  At least, not usually.

  The trouble was, after having spent most of the night replaying what had happened in the locker room with him, she wondered if it was possible that something you didn't believe in could in fact be real: He'd been terrified in the midst of that trance, and unless he'd pulled off an Oscar-worthy performance today, he honestly had no clue what he'd said to her and he was honestly worried about what it all meant.

  Taking her cell phone out of her purse, she dialed the number at the bottom of his card that didn't have cellar fax written next to it. Except as the ringing started, she remembered it was Saturday, and if this was the office number, she was going to get voice mail. What could she say?

  Hi, I'm the prostitute Mr. diPietro helped out last night and I'm calling to reassure him that my pimp is going to take care of everything. He doesn't have to worry about those two dead bodies in the alley.

  Perfect. Just the kind of a Post-it note he'd want his assistant sticking to his desk. She dropped the phone from her ear and put her thumb over the end button— “Hello?” came a male voice.

  She scrambled to get the cell back into place. “Hello? Ah…I'm looking for Mr. di—”

  “Marie-Terese?”

  Oh, that deep voice was dangerous. Caught up in the sound of it, she almost said, No, it's Gretchen. “Ah, yes. I'm sorry to bother you, but—”

  “No, I'm glad you called. Is there anything wrong?”

  She frowned and hit her directional signal. “Well, no. I just wanted you to know—”

  “Where are you? Still at the club?”

  “I just left.”

  “You have breakfast yet?”

  “No.” Oh, God.

  “You know the Riverside Diner?”

  “Yes.”

  “I'll see you there in five minutes.”

  She glanced at the clock on the dash. The babysitter was supposed to be at the house until noon, so there was plenty of time, but she had to wonder what kind of door she was opening. A big part of her wanted to run from Vin because he was too handsome and too much her type and she was an idiot if she didn't learn from the past.

  But then she reminded herself she could bolt. At the drop of a hat. Hell, she was on the verge of pulling out of Caldwell completely anyway.

  He's coming for you…

  Remembering the words he'd spoken to her gave her the impetus to meet with him. Attraction concerns aside, she wanted to know what he'd seen and why he'd said those things.

  “Okay, I'll see you there.” She ended the call, flicked her directional signal to the other side, and headed for one of Caldwell's landmarks.

  The Riverside Diner was just two miles away and so close to the Hudson's shoreline, the only way it could get any nearer was if the booths were anchored by buoys and floating in the current. The dining car had been rolled onto its blocks in the 1950s, before the EPA laws, and still had original everything, from the Naugahyde twirling stools at the Formica counter, to the jukebox extensions at each table, to the soda fountain from which the waitresses still pulled Cokes for customers.

  She'd been there once or twice before with Robbie. He liked the pie.

  When she walked in, she saw Vin diPietro right away. He was sitting in the last booth over on the left, and facing the door. As their eyes met, he got to his feet.

  Even with the shiner, the bruise on his cheek, and the swelling on his lower lip, he was stunningly sexy.

  Boy…as she walked over, she wished she had a thing for accountants, podiatrists, or chess players. Maybe even florists.

  “Hi,” she said as she sat down.

  On the table's countertop, there were a pair of menus, two sets of stainless-steel silverware on paper napkins, and a pair of thick ceramic mugs.

  It was all so down to earth, homey, cute. And in his black cashmere sweater and his toffee suede jacket, Vin loo
ked like he should have been at a fancy cafe, instead.

  “Hi.” He lowered himself slowly into his seat, his eyes locked on her. “Coffee?”

  “Please.”

  He lifted his hand and a waitress with a red apron and a red-and-white uniform came over. “Two coffees, thanks.” As the woman left to go get the pot, Vin tapped his red-and-white menu. “I hope you're hungry?”

  Marie-Terese opened hers and looked at all the choices, thinking that every single one of them was appropriate for a Fourth of July picnic. Okay, maybe not all the breakfast items, but this was the kind of place where the word salad always had a modifier like chicken, potato, egg, or macaroni, and lettuce was only for sandwiches.

  It was glorious, actually.

  “See anything you like?” Vin asked.

  She did not take the opportunity to look across the table at him. “I'm not a big eater, generally. I think for now I'll just stick with coffee.”

  The waitress came back and poured. “You know what you want?”

  “You sure you won't do breakfast?” he asked Marie-Terese. When she nodded, he took both menus and handed them to the other woman. “I'd like the pancakes. No butter.”

  “Hash browns?”

  “No, thanks. The pancakes are quite enough.”

  As the waitress headed for the kitchen, Marie-Terese smiled a little. “What?” he asked as he offered her the sugar.

  “No, thanks, I take it black. And I'm smiling because my son…he likes pancakes, too. I make them for him.”

  “How old is he?” Vin's spoon made a clinking sound as he stirred.

  Although the question was casual, the way he waited for her answer was anything but. “Seven.” She glanced at his bare ring finger. “Do you have kids?”

  “No.” He took a test sip and sighed like it was perfect. “Never been married, no children.”

  There was a pause as if he were expecting her to quid pro quo the info.

  She picked her mug up. “The reason I called you was because my boss…he wanted to let you know he's taking care of everything…” She hesitated. “You know, about what the security cameras might have caught last night or…things like that.”