A Thousand Tombs (11 page)

Last summer Oliver had helped outfit Gen in what they’d dubbed her Harriet persona. Harriet was a matronly librarian type with huge, thick glasses, straight, flat, very dark and very unbecoming hair, and shin-length skirts that hid an artificially bulky waistline. Heavy, rubber-soled shoes with homemade peep toes made following someone on foot a comfortable proposition.

The following morning Gen morphed herself into Harriet, strapped her stun gun holster above her knee, and got ready to trail Ralph and the appraiser to lunch. Just for kicks.

Nothing else to do today, so why not?

She left early and made it uptown without a hitch, then lucked into a slot at the curb several blocks from the park and walked over. She’d tested the disguise often enough now that she felt confident in its power. The extra makeup that created a baggy under-eye effect combined with the added body weight seemed to compel almost everyone to glance away pretty quickly. She hadn’t ever gotten a double-take. Not yet, anyway, and she was willing to take the chance that would hold true.

A bevy of boutiques and import shops along the street offered the ideal opportunity to kill time window shopping while she kept an eye on the pawnbroker’s door. She was in position across the street and half a block away when Ralph and John came out, locked up, and went south.

They weren’t in a hurry.

Gen matched their pace and trailed behind, giving partial attention to the merchandise in the store displays she was passing. She was suitably hungry by the time they arrived at their destination.

The pair pushed through a doorway into the Tratoria Italiana, and she waited five minutes before she crossed the street and followed them. She felt smug because she knew what to expect; she’d Googled the area around the Italian Athletic Club the day before and found the closest Italian eateries.

Then she’d called and pretended she wanted to book a place for a party so she could get an idea of the dining room layouts. She didn’t want to go into a six-table dive blind and take the chance of walking right up her target’s keisters.

A girl had to be prepared.

She glanced discreetly through the street-side window and saw them being seated in a booth at the back. There was a smattering of customers. Several of the open tables should provide safe enough seating, if she chose to join them.

She hesitated, wondering if she should push her luck, but decided to go for it. It was lunch time. She was hungry. She had no idea why she was really here today, so why not? Might as well eat.

The waiter greeted Gen as soon as she entered, then started to usher her to a double near the window. She pointed out another table against the far wall, and he graciously led her there instead. She sat facing the door with her backside to the duo in the booth and opened a menu.

It felt like a pasta primavera day.

She could hear the boys laughing it up behind her. Old Ralph hadn’t seemed the giggly type the one time she’d spoken with him. He must be in his element here, or putting on a show for the hired help. She was just forking up a bite of noodles and wishing she knew what was in his head, when the door opened again. She looked up as two formidable-looking men walked in.

One of them was swarthy, with a considerable five o’clock shadow. He was tall and heavyset, but with the kind of bulk that promised muscle. A thick gold chain touched the neck of his polo, and the banded sleeves cut into his biceps like a string tied tight around a sausage. Gen scooped up a bite and smiled at the spectacle; this was the caricature of an Italian gangster if she’d ever seen one.

She looked over her shoulder as he walked by, wanting to see if the rear view was as good as the front. When he raised a hand to take off his shades, she spotted the scorpion on the inside of his wrist.

There couldn’t be two of them. Not the same ink in the same spot. It was the guy who’d clocked her at Vitelli’s house two weeks ago. She felt a stab of anger and dropped her hand to her thigh, itching to pull out the stun gun and give him a taste of his own.

Which would get her exactly nowhere.

They continued on toward the back, oblivious to her spike of vitriol. Then they sat down with Ralph Zuccaro and John.

Whoa. What gives?

The pawn shop owner was playing all sides here.

She should go out to the street and call the cops and point the finger at her assailant. The satisfaction of having him spend a night in jail would be worth the trouble, and Vitelli should back her up.

Then again if Vitelli clammed up, the only evidence she had was the tattoo. She might end up with her tush hanging in the breeze and nothing to show for it but a wiser – and possibly more irritated – goon.

So she sat tight and ate her meal like nothing was up, all the while straining to hear what was being said twenty feet away. But the conversation was muted, and for all her trying, she couldn’t make anything out.

Curiosity throttled her appetite until she could not swallow another bite. She glanced around. Where was the ladies’ room? In the back, past the booth. Perfect. She stood and slung her purse over her shoulder, then casually made her way to the loo.

She was surprised as she passed; one glance told her the atmosphere in the booth wasn’t so friendly.

The thugs were leaning ominously over the table toward Ralph, and he was ramrod straight against the cushioned back of the bench seat. His eyes were wide.

Whatever was going down had him more than just a little apprehensive, but she couldn’t catch the thug’s whispered words.

What was most fascinating, though, was the air of satisfaction around John. She thought he was making a stab at looking suitably worried, but something about him was reveling in his employer’s predicament. Gen chalked it up to pleasure over the boss getting slapped down, but that didn’t correspond to his reaction the other day when she’d tried to get him to speak against Zuccaro.

When she was past the scene, she cursed to herself and pushed into the recessed entry that housed the restrooms, but didn’t go in. Instead, she swung against the wall and pretended to rummage in her purse for something as she listened.

The conversation ended. Gen heard the vinyl on the seat back squeak as someone either squirmed or relaxed.

“Are we square on this, Mr. Zuccaro?” a deep voice asked.

“Yes.”

That was Ralph, no doubt about it.

“You’ll keep us in the loop, then?”

“I will.”

“Then our business is done, gentlemen. Enjoy your lunch.”

The vinyl squeaked again, this time from bodies slipping across the bench seat. Gen heard feet hit the floor and the sounds of movement in the aisle outside her cubby.

“We’ll be around, Mr. Zuccaro,” the same deep voice said. “Don’t do anything stupid. All right?”

“Yes. I mean, no.”

“Nice to meet you, Ralph. Same to you, John.”

They were pretty polite for wiseguy types, Gen had to give them that. She heard them walk away toward the street exit and waited thirty seconds, then pulled open the bathroom door and shut it again. Then she left the nook and started back toward her table and the rest of her meal.

But something unexpected made her knees go weak.

The bruiser with the iron fist had turned around at the front door and was headed straight for her. She willed herself to access composure she was not feeling and nodded politely to the man as he passed. He barely glanced at her face. As soon as he was by, she cut to the right, skirting tables, and sank into her chair.

She raised a hand to summon the waiter. Gen wasn’t one to drink mid-day, but her shaking knees told her a glass of wine was in order.

The gallery that was hosting Mack’s metal sculpture exhibit was the same one she and Oliver had visited for Damian Fleur’s show last summer. Fleur was a successful multi-media artist Oliver had introduced her to, and, as it turned out, Mack also knew him.

Unbeknownst to her, the gallery management had been repping Mack for over a year. Even before that, he’d sold enough of his work over time to pay the mortgage way down and buy a newer truck for cash. True to his style, Mack hadn’t mentioned anything about it in all the months she’d known him.

The man just didn’t talk about himself.

Gen took Livvie’s advice and invited Mack to drive into the city early and get dressed for the show at her place, but he’d turned her down. She was disappointed.

Did she have to draw him a picture?

His excuse was that he wanted to spend time at the gallery prior to the opening to be sure every installation was exactly as it should be.

All right then, she’d said. Another time.

So she daubed on under-eye concealer to disguise the remaining color from her shiner – which rendered it invisible since it was almost back to normal – then dressed to the nines and drove to Russian Hill. Tonight she was determined to make him look twice, and then be sorry he hadn’t taken her up on the offer.

Her black cocktail dress would do the trick.

When she walked in fashionably late, her hair was curled and sultry, her dangly earrings seductive. She watched as about three dozen pairs of eyes raked her head to toe and signaled that she’d passed the litmus test.

Mack was slow to turn, but when he did she caught his double-take, followed by a flush of satisfaction that warmed his face and revved his smile. He excused himself from the couple he was chatting up and made his way through the crowd.

She met him halfway.

The slingback stilettos she wore brought her gaze almost level with his. When they stopped with about six inches of air between them, she saw what she wanted to see in his eyes: pure desire.

Yeah, baby. Mission accomplished.

“I screwed up.”

She knew exactly what he was referring to. “Yes, you did.” She kept her voice sweet and un-accusing. Let him come to Mama, she didn’t need to rub it in.

He chuckled and kissed her on the lips, a move that told the attendees whose date she was. That made her happy, and it made up for a lot of things that had passed between them lately.

When he offered his arm, she took it and let him escort her from group to group, making introductions. “This is my girlfriend, Genny Delacourt,” he said, over and over.

The last time she’d heard that phrase it’d been Mack introducing his former flame, Catherine, to her in this very spot the previous June. It was a whole different group of people that time, and he had not included the word “girl” before “friend” when he was referring to Catherine.

Oh, how things do change.

After a while, he was summoned to explain how he’d created a certain piece and excused himself. Gen was left to talk with an interesting quartet of people who’d known him for a while as an artist, not as a cop.

They were sharing stories of his past exploits when she saw something that made her suck in a breath. When she let it out, it almost hissed like steam.

Carla Salvatore was standing in the doorway.

Gen’s grip tightened on the stem of her wine glass. Why was she here? Had Mack invited her that day she caught Carla rubbing her boobs on the side of his pickup?

Gen felt as if she was flint and Carla was metal, and sparks were about to fly. But she steeled herself and stood her ground and pretended nothing was happening, just continued to laugh at the appropriate moments in the stories being told.

She got a visual of Mack catching the corner of his garage on fire with the welder. Then she heard about Mack installing a sculpture in the garden of a posh Nob Hill residence in the pouring rain, and Mack walking the wooded hills above Piedmont for hours in the dark when Stella got spooked by fireworks that first Fourth of July and jumped the fence.

But all she could think was Mack, Mack, Mack. What have you done?

And when she saw them come together across the room, she almost frothed at the mouth. Carla was canted toward him, scorching and captivated, and Mack was not leaning away. The cleavage in her hot red dress nearly beckoned to be ravished, and still Mack stood his ground. He did not take even a step back. He just let her invade his personal space and smiled like Mack the whole time.

In a vain attempt to hold on to her dwindling patience, Gen counted to twenty to calm herself and willed the object of her desire to slip away from the piranha. But he did not. He did grasp the vibe, though, when he looked around and caught her eye. But he just grinned wider and beckoned to her to join them.

Gen eased across the floor with as much sex appeal as she was capable of, considering she was out of practice. When she reached Mack’s side, she rated her effort an A minus, just based on the look in his eye. When he snaked an arm around her waist, she was pleased she’d at least torn his attention away from Sophia Loren for the moment.

“Miss Salvatore,” Gen said. “You pop up in the oddest places. To what do we owe the pleasure tonight?”

The way Carla’s eyes raked Mack nearly gave Gen apoplexy.

“I heard Mr. Hackett was an accomplished artisan. I had to come and see for myself,” Carla replied. Her eyes left his face for two seconds while she scoped out the room, then swung back to him. “I see my information was correct.”

“Thank you,” Mack said. “Look around. Enjoy yourself.”

He was trying to keep it all friendly, but Gen was like Roly after a gopher. “Isn’t this outside the range of your responsibilities,” she asked, “just a bit?”

“My visit is not on behalf of the Carabinieri,” Carla replied. “I am on my own personal time.” Once again she sized Gen up. This time, though, it looked as if Carla might have elevated her evaluation of the competition.

Gen smiled like a cat with a bird. “Really, Miss Salvatore. I’m feeling just a tad persecuted, running into you all over the city like this. You’re going to give me a complex if you keep it up. If it continues, I might be inclined to think you were doing it on purpose.”

Carla’s face remained passive, but her lids narrowed just a touch. “You must be mistaken, Miss Delacourt. My presence here is not about
you
.”

She underscored the point when her eyes darted to the hunk Gen had her arm wrapped around, but Mack stepped in. He turned his head a hair and murmured, “Genevieve, can I talk to you in private?”

“Sure.”

He dropped his arm from Gen’s waist. “Please excuse us, Carla.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, just took Gen by the elbow and walked her out through the double doors and into the lobby. When they got there, he ducked into a hall that led to the back offices – out of view of the guests – and tugged her with him, then cupped the back of her head with one hand and lowered his.

His lips hovered near hers just long enough to make her go batty before he covered her mouth with his own. By the time he finally pulled back she was breathless, but still had enough mental power to remember she’d been annoyed about something when he pulled her in here.

Oh. Right. Carla Salvatore.

“I’ve been dying to do that since you walked in the door,” he whispered.

“Mack. Did you invite the Italian creature?”

He laughed and tried to kiss her again but she held him off. “Did you?”

“No, I did not. To tell you the truth, I thought you had.”

“Why the hell would I do that?”

“To keep your enemies close, maybe.”

She blew out her snarky laugh. In reply, he pulled her to him and brushed his lips across her collarbone. They both felt her shiver, and it wasn’t from the air conditioning.

“You like me,” he whispered.

“You got that right,” she breathed in his ear. “I wish we could do something about it.”

“Soon,” he muttered.

He groaned when she ran her fingernails lightly up his neck and into his thick, wavy hair. But like a fool, she broke the mood and spoiled the tryst when she allowed her mind to slip back to the woman inside and the kid Mack was currently shacked up with.

She sighed and stepped back and poked a finger toward the middle of his chest. “Why is she here?”

It took him a minute to snap out of it and catch up with her. “Genny, I said I don’t know.”

“Did you mention this show that day she was rubbing her boobs up against your truck?”

He chuckled, apparently enjoying the description. “Of course not.”

“What did she say when she came in? You talked for a while.”

“That she was an art aficionado. That she’d heard about the show, just like she told you when you interrogated her out there.”

Gen crossed her arms over her chest, thinking, then voiced her suspicions. “Luca.”

“That’s crazy.” Mack’s defenses came up and he took a step away. “How would the kid know her, why would he tell her about this if he did know her, and just where the heck did you come up with that irrational idea?”

“He has a phone.”

“That’s too big a leap even for you, Genevieve.”

That comment smarted. Okay, if it’s going to get personal, here goes. Gen heard the iron in her voice and told herself to stop before she was sorry, but she couldn’t.

“I told you once before, San Francisco Police Detective Mackenzie Hackett, the kid is playing you. You might as well be his guitar. For a cop, you’re acting like a frigging pushover.”

She felt like a runaway train whose driver had bailed before the last downhill run. Her fingers were trembling. Her heart was beating slow and hard, like a drum with a single note. She fisted her hands at her sides to stop him from seeing her weakness, and blundered on.

“You’ve got no eyes for the truth here, Mack. Luca isn’t you, and you can’t save him like your brother saved you.”

When she saw the flash of fury in his eyes, she knew she’d gone too far. He threw her off for an instant when his expression softened and his lips curved up. When he spoke, his voice didn’t reveal anger or berate her for her insensitivity.

She only heard sadness and, strangely, pity.

“You don’t do that, Genny.” His voice was like silk, soft and quiet and strong. “It’s a rule, isn’t it? When somebody you care about shares something about themselves, something vulnerable, you don’t throw it in their face. You don’t use it against them.”

His words cut like a knife and scared Gen to her core. She should have had enough sense to let it alone, but the train had left the station.

Livvie was correct. She wanted Mack to be wrong. She wanted the boy to be bad news. Maybe she was immature enough that she wanted to be the only good thing that had come into his life recently.

She kicked herself for her shallowness, and then she wondered how she’d have to pay.

She didn’t have to wait long to find out.

He ran his fingers down the length of her arm, bicep to elbow, then dropped his hand. She saw him square his shoulders, as if what he was about to say was going to be tough.

“This isn’t about Luca or some woman who’s paying attention to me, Genny. This is about trust, and loyalty, and having somebody’s back. It’s about supporting someone’s decisions and letting them walk their path, not trying to derail them at every opportunity.”

Her reply sounded nervous, even to her. “That’s an exaggeration, Mack. I’m worried you’re getting attached to Luca and he’s going to let you down. You’re going to get hurt.”

“For chrissakes, that’s a crock. You’re worried about you.”

“Okay, maybe. Maybe I’m also wondering if you’re exclusive.”

His eyebrows shot up toward the ceiling and he sucked in about an acre of air. When he let it out he said, “If you really knew me, if you took the time and paid attention and looked at
me
,” he stabbed his thumb at his chest, “you’d understand that I would never step out on someone. Never, Genny. I dance with who I came with. That’s who I am. I’m with you because you’re who I want to be with. I thought I made that clear, waiting so long for you to come around. You think I’d throw it away? No. But
you
are. You’re willing to throw it away.”

“What do you mean?” Her back was really up now. She was angry, and at the same time her tone was edged with worry. She heard it, and she knew he heard it, too, because she saw his eyes go gentle and determined at the same time. She tried again. “Look, you’re the one who said not to make this about us.”

He took another step away and crossed his arms over his chest, like he felt the need to protect himself. Then he dropped the stance and slid a hand beneath his tie and clenched his fingers around something. Jimmy’s dog tags. Of course, he was wearing them beneath his shirt; he never took them off.

Gen knew he went for the tags for strength. She wondered if he needed it to distance himself from her.

“You crossed that line, not me,” he said. “I know for damn sure this isn’t about us. The question is, do you know that?”