Bodyguard (2 page)

Skinny and the bandanna were properly taken aback, but the girl was not cooperating. “I’m not—”

Harry yanked her toward him and she shrieked with alarm. “I’ve got a message for your father, Tina.” He pulled her away from the perps, scowling. “It’s private—do you mind?”

He leaned close to the girl, whispering into her ear. And just like that, visibly, she calmed.

“He’s telling her he’s FBI, and he needs her out of there before he can help the clerk,” George said. “He’s promising her that he’ll die himself before he lets anything else happen to Bobby.”

And the girl believed him. Or at least she did after she looked up into Harry’s eyes. His back was to the perps, and as he gave the girl a reassuring smile, all the craziness left his face. “I promise,” he whispered.

She decided to trust him and she nodded.

“Go,” he said, and she bolted for the door.

Harry moved with her, blocking her in case one of the perps got startled. He already knew they were trigger-happy sons of bitches.

“Good job clearing the room,” the police lieutenant said.

“You shouldn’ta let her go, man.” Dancer was pissed. “Now, something goes wrong, we don’t have a hostage.”

“No way do we want Tony D’Angelo’s kid for a hostage,” the bandanna said earnestly.

“That was bullshit.” The dancer spat on the floor. “She don’t look Italian.” He had to use two hands to level his gun at Harry. “You’re fucking this up, man. I oughta fucking shoot you!”

For the first time since he’d come in, Harry stood
absolutely still, looking directly down the barrel of that gun, looking straight into the man’s eyes.

“You wanna shoot me?” he asked. His voice was so quiet the police lieutenant had to lean forward, straining to hear. “Go ahead and shoot me. I don’t care. But you can bet your life, you shoot me—even in the head—I’ll shoot you before I hit the floor.”

No one moved, not in the market, not in the coffee room. No one so much as breathed. Except George, who shook his head and laughed. “He does this all the time. He really doesn’t care—which can be a little disconcerting. I’ve got to admit, when we’re in a car together, I no longer let him drive.”

On the tape, the dancer lowered his gun.

Harry burst into sudden laughter, moving back behind the counter. Skinny and the dancer exchanged uneasy looks. George knew they were thinking that whoever this guy was, he was definitely crazed. They were probably right.

“Outta my way, kid,” Harry pushed the bandanna-wearer aside, effectively putting himself between the clerk and the perps. “I can get this thing open.” He reached down underneath the counter with his free hand. “What you’ve gotta do is find the secret release button, and it’s right … here.”

Around them, a piercing alarm went off.

“You dumb shit!” the skinny man shouted. “That’s the alarm. Now the police are definitely gonna come.”

Harry smiled and raised his gun. “No, friend, the police are already here. Hands up, no one move—you stupid motherfuckers are under arrest.”

That was when the shooting started.

But Harry being Harry, it was over almost before it began.

* * *

Every light was on in the house.

Alessandra Lamont pulled into her driveway and just sat, looking at the Tudor-style monster she’d called her home for the past seven years.

When she’d gone out to visit Jane at the Northshore Children’s Hospital not quite three hours ago, she’d only left the hall light burning.

Now every light was on. And every window was broken.

Less than three hours ago, the last of the cleaning teams had left. Less than three hours ago, the house had been pristine and perfect, ready for Sunday morning’s real estate open house showing.

She leaned forward slightly to get a better look out the windshield. Yes, indeed, every window—including the round stained-glass antique over the front door—had been shattered.

It had been a very bad year, and it obviously wasn’t over yet.

In January, Griffin Lamont had rung out the old and ushered in the new. And at twenty-seven years of age, Alessandra had joined the washed-out ranks of the legendary first wives’ club. At twenty-seven years of age, she’d been traded in for a newer, shinier model. At twenty-seven, after being the center of attention at every party she’d ever attended, after being the Heisman of all trophy wives, she’d been all but put down to die.

In February, she’d sat down at a table with Griffin and their lawyers and worked out a divorce agreement. He’d sat across from her, his blond hair perfect, his blue eyes expressionless behind his glasses, his handsome face showing no regret, no remorse, no sign that the past seven years had even existed. He’d given her everything she’d asked for, though. The house. All three cars. A substantial percentage of his liquid assets. Apparently,
the only thing he wanted was the azalea bush that had belonged to his mother—the one just outside the kitchen door.

Alessandra had thought she’d won a major victory, particularly when she’d set the paperwork in motion to adopt Jane. Eight months old, severely handicapped, and born with a heart defect, Jane was labeled unadoptable by Social Services and the nurses at the hospital where Alessandra did fund-raising volunteer work. She’d taken to stopping in the nursery several times a week, helping to give bottles and warm arms to the unwanted babies.

Most babies didn’t stay unwanted for long, but Jane’s physical problems were daunting. Still, her smile was pure sunshine, and Alessandra had applied to adopt as a single parent. Months earlier, she had gathered her courage and approached Griffin about the possibility of adopting the baby, but he’d flatly refused: “No way. Was she crazy?”

Maybe.

And in February, she thought she’d won.

Until March.

In March, she’d discovered that the house was triple mortgaged to the hilt, the cars were leased, and Griffin had filed for bankruptcy. He was broke. There were no liquid assets. And as a result, she was broke.

In March, Alessandra had received word that she had been turned down by the state. She wouldn’t be allowed to adopt Jane. With her finances in disarray, with the sheer amount of her debt, she no longer had the ways or means to care for the baby, particularly since she would be a single mother.

Griffin’s leaving had hurt, but this broke her heart. No one else wanted the baby who had been named Jane Doe. What would become of her?

Just tonight, Alessandra had found out that Jane
would be placed in an institution as soon as she was strong enough to leave the hospital.

January had been awful, February was bad, but March really took the cake.

In March, Alessandra had found out that Griffin was wanted by the police in connection to a drug deal that had gone wrong. And later in March, the police had come to her door again, this time bringing her the news that her soon-to-be ex-husband had finally been found, his body washed up in the East River, near LaGuardia Airport. His hands had been tied, and the autopsy report revealed he’d been shot twice in the back of the head. He’d been the victim of a classic gangland slaying.

It was terrible. She’d been angry with him, sure, but she hadn’t wished him dead.

When the police questioned Alessandra, she’d told them she didn’t know who or what Griffin had been involved with.

She didn’t know, but she sure had her suspicions.

Michael Trotta. Alleged mob boss. Griffin had met him nearly ten years ago, playing golf at some local charity tournament. She herself had been to barbecues and cocktail parties at his Mineola home.

As she gazed expressionlessly at the broken windows in her house, her car phone rang. She picked it up, years of training and elocution lessons enabling her to sound cool and detached despite this latest disaster. “Hello?”

The voice was harsh, wasting no time on pleasantries. “Where’s the money?”

“I’m sorry,” Alessandra said. “What did you—”

“Find it,” the voice rasped. “Fast. Or you’re next.”

The call was disconnected.

Apparently, March wasn’t over yet.

* * *

Harry had put his head down on the table in the interview room and had fallen asleep. He was out cold, a cup of coffee still clutched in his hand. He slept exactly the way George expected him to sleep—with his teeth gritted and his eyes tightly, fiercely shut. There was absolutely none of that boyish-angel, relaxed serenity stuff happening when Harry slept, that was for certain.

George gazed at the precinct lieutenant over Harry’s head and shrugged. “It’s been a tough couple of months. We were working nonstop with a task force over in Jersey City, looking to indict Thomas Huang.”

The beefy lieutenant sat tiredly at the table, across from Harry, as he shook his head. “You take out one mob boss, two weeks later his replacement’s got the show up and running again.”

“Not this time. We got the whole top half of Huang’s organization. Harry made sure of it. He’s a stickler for things like that.”

The lieutenant looked at Harry. “He doesn’t look like a stickler. Or a fed.”

George adjusted his tie and brushed nonexistent lint from the sleeves of his own impeccable jacket. “He hasn’t been my partner for long. We’re still working on the suit thing.”

“You want me to get a couple of the boys from the squad room to help you carry him out to your car?”

“No, thanks. He’ll walk.”

“Are you sure? One of the detectives wanted this room, shook him, but couldn’t wake him.”

George smiled. “I can get him on his feet.” He leaned closer to Harry and whispered, “Michael Trotta.”

Harry lifted his head. “What? Where?”

George spread his hands, gesturing See? “The task force worked so well, we’re keeping it intact but moving it out onto the Island. Our next target’s out near
Mineola. A gentleman named Michael Trotta. He’s allegedly hip deep in illegal drug sales, prostitution, and graft. To name but a few potential charges—leaving out little things like murder one.”

“So it is true. You’re actually going for Trotta,” the lieutenant mused. “And apparently you don’t care who knows about it, huh?”

“We like to make ’em nervous,” George said.

Harry took a slug of his coffee then spit it back into the cup. “God!” He looked up at George accusingly. “How long did you let me sleep?”

“I’m not exactly sure.” George looked at his watch. “Two, maybe three hours, tops.”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “What’s the medical status on the clerk from the market? He all right?”

“He’s gonna be okay,” the lieutenant told him. “It was just a flesh wound. The blow to his head’s nothing major either. He’ll be released in the morning.”

“What about the perps?”

“All have lived to waste precious taxpayer dollars,” George said.

“What were you saying about Trotta?” Harry asked, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

“Just gossiping with the lieutenant.”

“You know, something came in about Trotta only an hour ago,” the lieutenant told them. “Some B&E report from the Island. Guy who recently showed up dead—word’s out he made Trotta unhappy. No proof tying him to the murder, though.” He snorted. “Of course not. Anyway, this guy’s house was just trashed. Somewhere in … Farmingville, I think it was.”

“Farmingdale?” Harry stood up. “Is the dead guy Griffin Lamont? ’Cause Griffin Lamont lives in Farmingdale. Lived.”

“Yeah, Lamont, I think that’s the name,” the lieutenant stood up, too. “I can check if you want.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Please. Check the name. And the address, while you’re at it.”

“Oh, shit,” George said. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you sleep.”

Harry rolled his head, trying to work a crick out of his neck. “Farmingdale’s not that far. We could get out there in about an hour, this time of night.”

“No,” George said. “I’m not driving out to Long Island tonight. Absolutely, positively, definitely not.”

Alessandra stood in the kitchen, shaking.

Whoever had done this had been thorough. As far as she could tell, there was little left intact in the entire house. Her couches and draperies had been knifed and torn, the wooden furniture splintered. Every piece of clothing in her closet had been shredded, her cosmetics crushed. Drying paint coated the once-expensive wall-to-wall carpeting and stained the walls. Here in the kitchen, her china had been smashed and ground into the Mexican tile floor along with broken jars of food from the pantry and refrigerator.

The devastation was complete. The quiet old house that had once been her sanctuary had been overrun by violence and chaos.

She closed her eyes as she bent over the sink, afraid she was going to vomit, silently cursing Griffin’s immortal soul to hell. In life, he’d treated her as little more than a possession. In death, his grip on her was still as tight as ever.

Where’s the money?

Alessandra couldn’t begin to guess.

“Mrs. Lamont?”

She quickly straightened up, automatically checking
her hair in the broken glass of a photo of Cold Spring Harbor that still hung crookedly on the wall. “In the kitchen.”

The police detective pushed open the door, wincing apologetically as he crunched on the remains of her Waterford crystal. He held out the phone. “Call waiting beeped while I was on with the captain. It’s a Brandon Wright for you …?”

Her lawyer. Finally. She took the phone. “Brandon, thank God. The house has been completely ransacked. Can you get over here right—”

“Alessandra, it’s nearly two
A.M.”

“But the entire house is—”

“No, I’m sorry, I can’t come out there now.” He sighed heavily. “And I know this is not the right time, but I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this. You’re broke. You can’t afford me anymore.”

She kept her voice calm as she went into the living room, searching desperately for some place, any place to sit down. “I see.” There was no longer anywhere to sit in the entire house. She was going to have to take this latest blow standing up.

“I’m sorry. I hate to desert you at a time like this, but if I come out there at two hundred and fifty dollars an hour the drive time alone will—”

“Of course. You’re right.” The front door was ajar, and as Alessandra watched, two men pushed it even farther open and stepped into the entryway. “Seven years of friendship is worth far less than two hundred and fifty dollars an hour.”