by Lynn, JB
After allowing God to run up my arm and dive into my bra, I slowly climbed from the car, wondering what we were doing there.
Gino, walking toward the front door, beckoned for me to follow him.
“What is this place?” I whisper-called.
“It’s safe,” he replied. “And quiet, so we can talk.”
There was an electronic lock on the door, and he punched in a code, then pushed it open.
“There’s coffee,” he tempted, holding out a hand in an invitation to join him.
“Who lives here?” I followed him inside. Stepping into the living room, I surveyed a place that was clean, but worn. Crocheted blankets and doilies seemed to top every surface.
“It’s my mom’s place,” Gino said.
I stared at him.
“What?” he teased. “You thought I was born a mobster’s bodyguard? You’re not the only one with a complicated family. You want coffee?”
“Please,” I murmured, following him into the kitchen, looking around. “Is she here?”
“Who?”
“Your mom.”
“Nope, she’s cruising the Mediterranean…or maybe the Baltic? I lose track. She’s on an around-the-world cruise with Mr. Money.” As he talked, he busied himself making coffee. “It’s actually their third. Or maybe it’s the fourth.”
“I take it Mr. Money isn’t your father?”
He chuckled. It was a sound way more bitter than dark roasted Italian coffee beans. “No. She met Mr. Money a couple of years ago and they’ve been touring the world ever since.” He glanced over his shoulder at me. “Sit.”
I sat at the kitchen table covered with a blue polka-dot tablecloth.
“Hungry?” He opened the fridge and began scrounging around.
My stomach turned as I wondered how far past the expiration date the food must be.
“French toast okay?”
“Coffee’s good,” I managed to choke out.
He turned toward me, arms full of eggs, bread, butter, and milk. “You can’t go saving the world on an empty stomach. And no, coffee doesn’t count as a food group.”
“I disagree,” I laughed.
“Of course you do.” On his way toward the stove, he bent to place a quick kiss on my forehead.
My heart stuttered at the casual show of affection.
I stared up at him, blinking my surprise.
He winked at me and moved to the counter to put down the food. “I make great French toast. The secret is in using cinnamon bread.” He picked up the bread and shook it for emphasis.
I sat silently, not understanding what was going on. I watched him put a frying pan on the stove, adjust the flame underneath, and dump a slab of butter in.
“It’s kind of cute he wants to play house with you,” God said, crawling up to my shoulder.
“What are we doing?” I blurted out.
Gino cracked an egg into a bowl before he answered. “We’re having breakfast. Then, we’re going to put our heads together and figure out what happened to Griswald and get him back.”
“Armani said he’s going to be tortured,” I told him.
He shot me a questioning look. “Your loyal lottery-winning friend?”
I nodded, appreciating that he hadn’t labeled her as the “one with a limp” and curious how he knew she was loyal. “She’s psychic.”
“For real?” He cracked a couple more eggs as the butter in the pan began to sizzle.
“Semi-psychic.” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. I had enough difficulty making sense of Armani’s ability to myself. Explaining them was even harder. “Her predictions are usually accurate but unclear.”
“Cool.” He stirred milk into the eggs.
“He gets extra points for not scoffing,” God declared.
“You believe in psychics?” I asked.
He shrugged, taking bread out of the bag and dipping slices in the egg mixture. “You believe in her.”
I stared at his back while he dropped the soaked pieces into the hot pan, remembering that he’d accepted that I talk to animals without a moment’s hesitation.
“She thinks Griswald’s being tortured?” He moved from the stove to the coffee pot.
“She could be wrong,” I was quick to say. “Like, one of her last predictions was that I was going to die and that’s not exactly what happened.”
He’d been taking two mugs out of a cabinet, but he whirled around to face me. “But you did when you turned blue, you were dyed.”
I nodded, amazed that he was able to make the connection so quickly.
“Whoa,” he murmured. “That’s some seriously impressive prediction.” He turned back to pour the coffee. “I thought you looked kind of cute that way. What did your other boyfriend, Zack, think of your Smurf look?”
I scowled, wondering how he’d seen me blue. Then, I realized it must have been when he was on the way to save Patrick from the two men he’d been fighting at the textile manufacturing warehouse. “Zeke,” I corrected, distractedly. “He wasn’t fond of the blue skin. He bought me baking soda to wash it off.”
“So he is your boyfriend?” He held out a steaming cup of coffee, his gaze searching mine.
I shook my head. I took the mug from him and immediately put it down on the table before it could scald me. “I don’t understand why you’re so obsessed with my supposed boyfriends.”
He turned back to the stove and flipped the slices of bread and turned down the flame. “Sure, you do.”
“Because it falls under your job description of knowing everything about me,” I muttered angrily, getting to my feet.
He tossed the spatula he held onto the counter and spun to face me. “Are you deliberately obtuse or do you come by it naturally?”
“What?”
“Obtuse means slow to understand,” God defined helpfully.
I glanced at my shoulder. “Shut up, Merriam Webster.”
“Obstinate, too,” the lizard replied and then dove into my bra.
“Obnoxious,” I countered.
Shaking his head, Gino turned and took the pan off the flame. “Maybe this was a bad idea. I thought we could…” He trailed off, a dejected slump to his shoulders. “You’re stressed and you don’t need to be arguing with me on top of everything else. You should go. I’ll do my job and take care of the Griswald thing. It’s my responsibility.”
My heart squeezed at the dismissive note in his voice. “Gino.”
He shook his head. “I’ve got it. Go.”
I took a step closer to him. “I’m not obtuse.”
“Sure. Whatever.”
Even with his back to me, I could see the tension outlined in his body posture. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he muttered.
I closed the rest of the distance between us. Tentatively, half-expecting him to push me away, I wrapped my arms around his waist and rested my forehead between his shoulder blades, breathing in his scent. “I’m sorry.”
He tensed, but didn’t pull away.
“You already said that,” God piped up. “Now, say something that actually means something.”
“What did he say?” Gino asked.
“That I already said I’m sorry.”
Gino chuckled, relaxing a little.
“And that I should say something meaningful,” I admitted, my chest tight with emotions I couldn’t name.
I felt him hold his breath, waiting.
“I…um…I…” I stammered awkwardly. “Why do you believe I can talk to animals?”
Gino exhaled. I could practically hear the disappointment in his breath.
“Because,” he said, slowly, turning to face me. “You’ve proven yourself to be pretty extraordinary.”
I dropped my hands to my sides and would have stepped backwards, but he grabbed my shoulders, pinning me in place. Heat flooded through me. I wasn’t sure if it was due to being embarrassed by his praise or because of the desire licking through me.
“Why woul
dn’t I believe you can do that extraordinary thing, too?” he continued, his voice barely more than a gravelly whisper.
“I’m not,” I argued.
“Not what?”
“Extraordinary.” I practically choked getting the word out.
“Yeah,” he said, brushing the hair away from my face and staring deep into my eyes. “You kinda are.”
Tears threatened as I realized he saw me, really saw me, quirks and flaws and shortcomings, and still found me to be extraordinary.
He bent his head and my eyes fluttered closed, ready for his kiss. My body swayed toward him in anticipation.
But nothing happened.
I opened my eyes, confused, and found him watching me.
“Kiss me, Maggie,” he invited.
The last time he’d issued that challenge, I’d responded with a chaste peck. I swallowed hard. Part of me knew this probably wasn’t the best choice. Part of me thought it was the best idea I’d had in a long time. The moment, taut with tension, stretched between us.
I stood on tiptoe to claim his lips with mine.
It was sweet and tender and loaded with emotion, leaving me weak in the knees. He wrapped his arms around me supportively.
I slid my hand behind his head to prevent him from pulling back when he tried. I wanted more. I deepened the kiss, straining to get closer to him.
He stumbled back as I pressed against him.
“Sensitive skin!” God bellowed. “You’re crushing me.”
Gino pulled his mouth away from mine and looked down my shirt.
We both started to laugh.
19
Gino did not lie. He makes excellent French toast. After we’d finished laughing at God’s fear of being crushed, he insisted we eat the breakfast he’d made before it got cold.
Over the meal, we decided that I would go talk to my dad about what he knew about Griswald’s troubles, while Gino would investigate the other mob family’s connection to his disappearance.
“Be careful,” Gino warned once he’d tucked me behind the steering wheel of my car. He closed the door and then leaned in to give me one last lingering kiss. “Call if you need me.”
My lips were still tingling as I drove toward Ian’s place.
God was uncharacteristically quiet.
We drove the entire way in silence. Even when I was climbing the steps to knock on the front door, the lizard was mute. I noted that Ian’s truck wasn’t anywhere in sight, and wondered if anyone was even at the house.
I hesitated before rapping my knuckles against the surface. “You okay?”
“Fine,” God muttered.
When he didn’t elaborate, I shrugged, knocked on the door, and waited.
“Maggie!” Thurston, my dad’s twin brother boomed, opening the door. “What a nice surprise.”
“Sorry to drop by unannounced.”
“Nonsense. You’re welcome here anytime.” He kissed my cheek and ushered me inside. “Get up, lazy bones,” he bellowed. “Your daughter is here to see you.”
“Be right there,” my father called back.
“Coffee?” Thurston offered, leading me into the kitchen.
“No thanks, I’ve already had some.”
“Ian spent the night at his Doctor Lady’s place,” Thurston said.
I nodded tightly. Personally, I wasn’t thrilled that my brother was dating the Medical Examiner, who also doubled as a mob doc, but it wasn’t my place to say anything.
“You’ve met her?” He indicated which chair at the kitchen table I should sit at.
I sank into it. “Uh huh.”
“What did you think of her?” Thurston’s gaze on me sharpened as he waited for an answer.
“She seemed, um…professional,” I murmured noncommittally.
Thurston made a huffing sound I couldn’t translate.
“What did you think of her?” I asked curiously. I knew why I didn’t trust her. I wanted to know the impression of the man who’d raised Ian.
“He doesn’t always have the best taste when it comes to relationships,” Thurston replied carefully. “I guess that runs in the family.”
I was pretty sure I heard God snicker.
“My Maggie May,” Dad cried, walking into the kitchen wearing an oversized terrycloth robe. He held his arms out, waiting for a hug.
I stood up and stepped into his arms.
He squeezed me tightly. “How’s my girl?”
“Okay,” I replied once he loosened his grip enough to let me breathe again.
“Coffee?” he offered.
“No thanks.” I sat back down in the seat I’d occupied.
“I’ll leave you two to it,” Thurston said, patting my shoulder and lumbering out of the room. “Don’t be a stranger, Maggie.”
My father poured himself a glass of water from the tap and then settled into the seat opposite me. “What’s bothering you?”
I appreciated the fact that he didn’t insist on making pleasant small talk, allowing me to get right to the reason for my visit. “I’m worried about Griswald. I need to know what you gave him.”
Dad blinked and sat back in his chair. “That’s direct.”
“It’s urgent. People are trying to kill him.” I refrained from letting him know that the Marshal had been kidnapped.
“It’s not your place to save him, Maggie,” Dad argued.
“He’s done a lot for me, Dad. He’s done a lot for all of us.”
He hung his head. “The man the family always needed but I could never be.”
I didn’t know how to respond to the shame and resignation I heard in his tone, so I just sat quietly.
He smoothed back his hair with both hands as he raised his head and looked me in the eye. “He’s a good man?”
I nodded.
“You respect him?”
“Yes.”
“You love him?”
I hesitated, afraid the question was a trick and if I answered wrong, he wouldn’t tell me what I so desperately need to know. “In a way,” I replied carefully. “Please, Dad…”
“You know I already told all this to those two nephews of his, right?”
I blinked. “No. I didn’t know that.”
“Surprised?”
“Relieved,” I answered honestly.
He threw back his head and laughed. “You always were my straight from the hip girl, Maggie May.”
“It’s not always to my benefit,” I admitted.
“I imagine not.” He sat back in his seat, crossed his arms over his chest and considered thoughtfully. “Well, I guess since you’re determined to help the man, you should know what’s going on.”
I nodded, waiting hopefully.
“Griswald’s father, old Jail ‘Em Jerry, as he was called, was a cop.” He paused to sip his water. “Old school. By the book. A total pain in the butt, if you believed what the old-timers used to say.”
I offered a half-smile of encouragement.
“But even the criminals didn’t think what happened to him was right.”
“And what was that?” I asked, trying to sound patient.
“He was framed for murder,” Dad revealed.
I winced, remembering my recent run-in with a would-be-framer. “By friend or foe?”
Dad squinted at me. “An interesting question. Why would you ask that?”
I shrugged. “Things are rarely black or white, right or wrong.”
“Tell that to your Aunt Susan,” he muttered.
Ignoring the slight to my aunt, I asked, “Who framed Jerry Griswald?”
“That’s not the right question, Maggie May.”
He drank from his glass, while I swallowed my impatience.
“What’s important is who he was accused of killing.”
“I doubt that’s what’s important to Griswald. Knowing him, his biggest concern would be proving his father’s innocence.”
Dad nodded. “Lada Anatov.”
“Excuse me?”
�
��Lada Anatov, beloved sister of Nikolai Anatov, who at that time was working for his father, who was running the Russian crime syndicate in these parts.”
“In New Jersey?” I asked doubtfully.
“The Russians have been here since the eighties. They may not get as much media attention as their Italian brethren, but they’re here.”
“So somebody killed Lada,” I prompted. “And Jerry Griswald was framed for it?”
Dad nodded. “It was a big trial.”
“Convicted?”
He tilted his head to the side. “You don’t know?”
I shook my head.
“Jerry Griswald died.”
I frowned, thinking that might be part of the motivation behind his son’s obsession.
“The morning the jury was set to deliver their determination,” Dad elaborated.
“How?” I asked, imagining he’d been killed by another prisoner or by suicide.
“He died playing hero.”
“Really?”
“The van he was being transported to court in was involved in a multi-vehicle crash. An ambulance ran a stop sign, a semi swerved, hit the transport, and then plowed into a school bus.” He shook his head. “Somehow, everyone in the van was uninjured. They were trying to get the kids off the bus and Jerry noticed the ambulance was on fire. He saw a body lying on the gurney inside and raced to save the patient.”
He paused and drank.
I waited, starting to understand Griswald’s need to clear his father.
“The oxygen tank in the back of the ambulance exploded, killing him instantly.” He rubbed his forehead. “But the kicker for the whole thing was that there was no patient.”
“But you said—”
“It was a CPR dummy.”
I groaned. “And what about the jury. What had they decided?”
“Not guilty,” he revealed on a heavy sigh.
“So Griswald should feel like his father was vindicated,” I mused.
Dad shrugged. “There’s a difference between being found not guilty because a lack of proof was offered, and actually being able to prove who really did it.”
I eyed him suspiciously. “And you know who did that?”
He looked away.
“Dad?” I didn’t bother to hide my impatience.
With a sigh, he finally said, “There’s video.”
“Of what?”