Better Read Than Dead (36 page)

“No. He has no idea where I am. In fact, my gut tells me right about now he’s celebrating the fact that I’m dead.”

“Then how did you find us?” the woman demanded, fear gripping her features in a pale, pained mask.

“I’m psychic,” I said simply. There was no other explanation I could give that would make these women believe me, so going with the truth seemed like a plan.

Both women blinked, neither really comprehending what I meant by that, so I continued: “The truth is,” I said, sitting down again with my hands in plain sight, resting them on the table, “Andros wanted me to find you, Dora, but I refused.”

The woman I’d called Dora seemed to sag a little at the mention of her real name. Madame J continued to quiver in Dora’s arms, her lips moving while she crossed herself.

“How did you know it was me?” Dora asked.

“It’s your eyes. Your face is different from your picture—I’m guessing plastic surgery?”

Dora’s mouth set in a tense line. She was terrified, I could tell, but she was holding herself bravely in spite of her fear. She turned to Madame J and said, “Brishka, go in the back and lie down. I’m going to talk to her. . . .”

“No! No, no, no! You mustn’t! Ve must get avay; he’ll kill us . . . !”

“Brishka, go in the back and let me talk to her. Let me deal with this, all right? We knew it would come to this someday anyway, so go now into the back,” she said as she guided the older woman around the counter and through the curtain leading to the back. Dora watched until Madame J was safely on her way; then she turned to look at me, assessing how to proceed, I guessed.

Finally she moved to the big urn and filled two cups with steaming tea. Bringing them around the counter she set them on the table where I was seated, picked up the chair that Madame J had overturned, and took her seat. Her hands were shaking despite her effort to remain calm. “How do you know my husband?” she asked, getting right to the point.

“I was part of the entertainment at your daughter’s wedding.”

“Ophelia’s married?” Dora asked me, tears instantly springing to her eyes.

“Yes, about three weeks now. She was a beautiful bride,” I said, trying to make small talk and calm her down.

Dora’s eyes held a faraway stare; then she closed them and shook her head, tamping down the pain of having to distance herself from her children. “I wanted to take them with me, you know.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“The person who helped me would help me and only one of my children. He wouldn’t take on the responsibility of all of them. Besides, it was supposed to be for only a short time. They were going to put my husband away forever, and when that didn’t happen . . . well, there wasn’t anything I could do but hide.”

“Who helped you escape from him?” I asked.

“Andros’s cousin, Nico. His wife, Sophia, was my best friend,” Dora said, sighing heavily and taking a long sip from her tea. “Andros wasn’t always like this, you know. We dated in high school, and back then he was sweet and even charming. He had big dreams of owning a restaurant. He didn’t really want to be a part of the family business, but his father and older brother were gunned down shortly after we were married, and it changed him.

“His father was the don back then, and Andros was so angry at his family’s murder that he stepped up to fill his father’s shoes. He was so bent on revenge he was blind to any other option.

“He used to come home at night and tell me every horrible thing he’d ordered his men to do that day. I guess he liked to unload his conscience. Anyway, after a while, hearing about all the horrible things he’d done, I became too terrified to leave him. I simply knew too much. So I lived with my fear for nearly ten years; then he told me about an argument he’d had with Nico. . . .”

“His cousin?”

“Yes. Andros said that Nico had become a coward. He said that Nico came to him and wanted out. But ‘out’ isn’t an option when you’re related to the mob. The only way out is in a pine box, and that can come early or late in life, depending on the choices you make.

“So shortly after Nico told Andros that he wanted to sell out his share and retire, Andros came home and confessed to me that he was going to take care of Nico. I knew that if Andros could kill his own cousin, then he wouldn’t have any qualms about killing me too, so secretly I contacted Nico and told him about the plan. He immediately took extra precautions, and in return arranged for me to disappear. The problem was that I couldn’t convince him to help me and all of my children. He was too afraid of Andros, I guess, so he would agree only to help me and one other. I chose Demetrius because he seemed the most impressionable at the time, and I didn’t want him to grow up like his father.

“So the day I disappeared I took Demetrius with me to run some errands, and I was so nervous about being seen that I didn’t keep a close eye on him.” Dora had lifted a paper napkin from the dispenser at the side of the table and was wringing it in both hands as she recalled the painful memory. “When Nico showed up I couldn’t find Demetrius. He’d wandered off, and we had such a small window of opportunity. I had no choice but to leave him behind, and it just about killed me. . . .” Dora stopped and took a sip of tea, tears slipping down her cheeks as the emotion of that memory stirred up all kinds of demons. “Nico talked me into leaving my son behind. He said he would send someone to find Demetrius right away, and he reasoned that we were in a safe neighborhood, but we couldn’t wait a moment longer.”

“I don’t understand why you just didn’t postpone your escape, Dora,” I said gently. The thought of leaving behind my own children was just unfathomable to me.

Dora snapped a look at me. Defensively she said, “It’s not that simple. I mean, you have to understand—I was
terrified
of the man I slept next to every night. He was definitely going to figure out who tipped off his cousin, and when he did my life wasn’t worth squat. Besides, Nico promised me that once we made our escape he would go to the authorities and turn state’s evidence against his cousin, and I could then be reunited with all my children. He promised me he wanted nothing more to do with the business, and I believed him.”

“So what happened?”

“Well, once Nico had gotten me safely away and was making arrangements to move his own family, his best friend was murdered and left in the trunk of Nico’s car. That really frightened him, and instead of going to the authorities as he’d promised, he simply moved his operation to Florida, as far away from Andros as possible. Sophia and I kept in touch for a little while—she wanted her husband to get out of the business too. But I guess in the end the greed just took over, and Nico couldn’t let it go.”

“So what’s your connection to Madame J?”

“Brishka was my nanny when I was a child. She retired here years ago and opened up this tearoom. When I tracked her down she offered me a safe haven. I hoped that in time Andros would just give up on trying to find me, but when word got to us that he was still actively pursuing me, Brishka offered her talents to help throw him off the track. She’s read cards and tea leaves for fifty years, and I knew how superstitious Andros was—his mother had the gift, and he’s always been in awe of it.

“So against my better judgment Brishka went to Michigan and sought Andros out, offering her services to him. The plan worked for a short while. She was good enough to provide Andros with lots of detailed information that would make him believe her, so she was also able to suggest that I was in California, then Europe, then Greece. Andros sent people all over the world trying to track me down, and in the meantime he had a stroke of genius and decided to use Brishka to help his business along.

“He demanded more and more from her until one night he called her and told her to come to his house immediately. When she got there, he ordered her to read a man sitting in his study. Brishka picked up several things about the man, including that he’d recently cheated in a card game, and without hesitation Andros shot the man point-blank right in front of her. Apparently Andros had hosted a poker game earlier in the evening and had lost heavily to the unfortunate man in his study. Brishka barely made it back here with her own life, and her fear of him is nearly paralyzing. Since then we’ve managed to keep a very low profile. That is until you showed up.”

I nodded gravely. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that.”

“So how
did
you find us?” Dora asked me.

“Well, Dora, the truth really
is
that I’m psychic. My name is Abigail Cooper, and I’m a professional clairvoyant from Royal Oak, Michigan. The way I got here was through several visions that led me directly to your door, but at the time I wasn’t really looking for you. Andros wanted me to find you, but you have my word,” I said, holding up my palm in a solemn pledge, “I would never, ever reveal to him where you are.”

Dora didn’t look convinced. “Andros can be a very persuasive man, Abigail.”

“Call me Abby, and yes, I know. Listen, my boyfriend is an FBI agent. He’s been trying these past few weeks to bring Andros down. Why don’t I get in touch with him and maybe we can come up with a plan to keep you and Brishka safe, okay?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because Andros will stop at nothing to get me back. He’s been able to circumvent the law for thirty years. He’s a very, very dangerous man.”

“Well, he may not be so dangerous for much longer,” I said cryptically.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s dying. He’s got cancer.”

Dora’s jaw dropped, and she stared at me in shock. “He’s got cancer?”

“Yes. I picked up on it when I met with him, and he confirmed it. My intuition says he won’t make it another month. With him gone you could reconnect with your children, Dora, your family. . . .”

Dora stood up and began to pace the floor. She was clearly agitated. “It’s not that simple,” she said sharply.

“Why not?”

She stopped her pacing and looked at me, “Because I don’t know
who
the hell you are or
if
you’re telling me the truth.”

“That’s fair,” I said. “So let me prove it.”

“How?” she demanded.

I reached over and grabbed the paper napkin sitting next to my cup of tea. I smoothed it out, took a pen out of my purse and wrote Dutch’s name on the napkin. “Dora, this is my boyfriend, Agent Roland Rivers. He’s with the Troy, Michigan, division of the FBI. You can call information, get the number and leave him a message,” I explained as I scribbled my name and my cell phone number underneath. “This is my cell. Call me after you talk to Dutch—uh, Roland; he goes by the nickname Dutch. He’s a good guy and he can help you and Madame J. I promise.”

Dora looked skeptically at the napkin, and I had no idea what she was thinking. I decided to let her mull it over, and if she felt okay about it, then she would get help. If not, there was nothing more I could do. “I’m staying at the La Quinta inn if you want to meet with me again. Otherwise, thank you for the tea, and take care of yourself.”

With that I walked out of the shop and down the street, waving my arm at an available taxi.

I got back to the hotel twenty minutes later and went straight to the dining room. I was famished; the scone and blueberry muffin had only whetted my appetite for something more substantial. The hostess escorted me to a seat at a corner table near the back of the restaurant, and after sitting down I picked up the menu immediately. The dining room was filling up quickly; dinner hour had arrived.

I looked through the menu and chose the Southwestern chicken, with a basket of chips and salsa as an appetizer while I waited for my food. As I looked around the restaurant I became suddenly self-conscious; I was the only one eating alone. To give myself something to do I got up and headed out to the lobby, where I bought a
USA Today
newspaper and brought it back to my table. Absently I scanned the paper while I munched on the chips and salsa.

I read the entertainment section first, and sifted through a few articles on the state of the economy and world affairs. My food arrived and I set the paper aside, focusing on cutting my meat and avoiding eye contact with other patrons at the restaurant. I was halfway through the meal when something in the upper left-hand corner of the newspaper caught my attention, and I dropped my fork as I read the headline.

It read:
Two undercover FBI agents gunned down execution style in their hotel room near Detroit—possible Mafia connection . . .
My hands shook as I snatched up the paper and tore through the pages, looking for the article. My heart beat faster and faster, and a cold chill spread across my back. I found the article and read the first three lines quickly.

 

 

My hands started to shake so violently that I could no longer hold the article still enough to read it. I dropped the paper, and suddenly found it very difficult to breathe. My lungs were pumping, but no air seemed to satisfy my need for oxygen. The world began to spin and whirl, and I wasn’t able to stand, even though that was what I wanted to do. I wanted to run out of the restaurant, and go where, I didn’t know . . . someplace where the world made sense . . . someplace where Dutch was still alive.

I felt someone next to me, and I became aware that I was on the floor now, on all fours, still gasping for air. The world was growing dim, and I was seconds away from passing out when someone shoved a paper bag over my mouth and nose and lifted me off my hands to sit against the wall. My head was lowered close to my knees, and the bag still covered my mouth as I breathed in and out, inflating and deflating the bag.