Bodyguard (6 page)

If the danger that loomed hadn’t been quite so deadly, she might’ve started laughing. Every piece of clothing she owned had been shredded or stained with blood, except for the few articles she’d had at the dry cleaners: an evening gown, a turquoise silk sheath dress, four blouses, and her floor-length black velvet Christmas skirt.

Out of all of those outfits, the silk sheath seemed least inappropriate for searching a house from top to bottom.

She’d changed out of her bloodstained clothes in the bathroom and wrapped them in plastic, intending to take them to the dry cleaners as soon as possible. They would be permanently stained, but at least she could wear them around the house.

Finally the last of the police had left—empty-handed, thank goodness—and once again she was alone in the house. Work crews had replaced the windows in the first floor, but they’d gone home as the sun began to set.

Forty-eight hours. Forty-two hours now. Dear God.

Alessandra sat in the shambles of the living room and tried to think like Griffin. He had just stolen an exorbitant amount of money from the mob: Where would he hide it?

She’d rearranged the room he’d used as his home office back in December, on the day after he’d moved out. She’d packed up all his books and papers and taken his big wooden bookshelves down to the basement, transforming the room into another guest bedroom.

She now had four guest bedrooms and exactly zero friends.

Forcing those thoughts away, she squared her shoulders and got to work.

“How are you, kitten?”

Kim Monahan closed her eyes and let herself hate Michael Trotta. Over the phone, talking to him was easy. She didn’t have to smile, didn’t have to look at him as if she were dying to unzip his pants. She could seethe with anger if she wanted to—as long as it didn’t ring in her voice. “I’m fine.”

“What have you got for me?”

“Nothing much, but you asked me to call, so—”

“Just tell me what you’ve got, and I’ll decide whether or not it’s nothing much.” There was a trace of that nasty edge Trotta sometimes got in his voice. Kim was glad she was separated from him by forty miles of telephone wire. Although, there were times when forty thousand miles wouldn’t seem far enough.

“All right,” she said evenly. “He made a single phone
call last night, got a machine, left a message for Harry. That’s his partner. He was brief, simply said to call him at home. But nobody called back. He called again this morning, connected with Harry, told him he was going to swing by and pick him up, take another trip out to the Island. After he hung up I asked him which island he was going to, and why he had to go there on a Sunday. He didn’t give me an answer.”

George had looked down at her, still naked in his bed, as if he somehow knew she was only there because she was working for Trotta. But he couldn’t possibly know. There was no way he could know.

He wasn’t particularly attractive—not according to her standards. She liked hockey players, football players. Big beefy bruisers with broad shoulders and arms the size of her thighs. George Faulkner was a far cry from that.

His face was handsome enough, in a sort of elegant way—if you liked pretty men. He was tall and graceful, with long tapered fingers and nails that were better manicured than hers.

She should’ve hated him, the way she hated Michael Trotta, the way she often hated herself.

But he had a certain gentleness about him. A kindness. And when he laughed, when his eyes lit up with amusement, she didn’t think about the fact that his shoulders weren’t particularly wide or that his biceps weren’t the biggest she’d ever seen in her life.

And no, he didn’t know she was working for Trotta. That had been her own guilt she’d seen reflected in his eyes.

“What time did he leave his apartment?”

“A little after nine.”

“Stay close and keep in touch. Don’t go anywhere,” Trotta told her and hung up.

“Where would I go that you couldn’t find me?” Kim asked the empty line.

“If you light that cigarette,” Harry said, getting into the car, “I’ll kill you.”

George reached for the car lighter. “You know, you’d get a lot further if you started using words like please and thank you.”

“Please don’t make me fucking kill you. Thank you.”

George put the lighter back. “Much better.” He pulled out into the Sunday morning traffic, slipping the unlit cigarette into his shirt pocket. “Is there a reason you look as if you haven’t slept since I dropped you home Friday night?”

Harry closed his eyes, slumped in his seat. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“If it has to do with a woman, it’s okay—you can look as tired as you want.”

Harry kept his eyes tightly shut. “Take the Cross Island down to the Southern State. The L.I.E.’s already backed up.”

“I take it that’s a no—no woman is involved.”

“Please just shut the fuck up. Thank you.”

“You’ve been working the street for far too long,” George said cheerfully. “You need to buy a thesaurus and find yourself a new favorite word.”

Harry didn’t answer.

“Either that,” George hypothesized, “or you’ve got to get laid—get your mind off the subject. I happen to know that Kim has a friend who—”

Harry gave up. “I got to my room night before last,” he interrupted, “to find my answering machine completely filled with messages from Shaun.” The first of the messages had been old—dated back almost two months ago. His first thought had been God, had it really been
that long since he’d called his kids? But he knew it had. He dreaded calling home. It was too hard, even now, two years later. “He didn’t say what was up, just ‘It’s Shaun again, call me.’ It was late, but I thought someone would be up in the house, so I called.” The time difference made it earlier for them. “No answer. Machine wasn’t on, nothing.”

“That’s odd.”

“Yeah, it gets even worse.” Harry rubbed his forehead. God, his head ached. He’d slept maybe three hours last night, and no more than two the night before. “The landlady’s been collecting my mail, bringing it inside—there’s an enormous pile right on the bed. It’s mostly junk mail, but I go through it because there might be credit-card bills mixed in, and what do I find?”

George wisely didn’t try to guess.

“A notification that the equivalent of adoption proceedings have been started. A petition has been made to the county court about some freaking name change crap. And there’s some bullshit paper I’m supposed to sign, giving up all legal rights to custody. My stepsister’s trying to steal my kids.”

Even as he said the words aloud, Harry couldn’t believe it. Why would Marge do that? What the hell was going on?

“So I call back—by then it’s at least one
A.M
. And they’re still not home. Emily is only a baby. What the hell is she doing out at one
A.M
.? I called at two and three and four, and they still weren’t home. I called all yesterday, too, and last night. They’re gone.”

“Maybe they’re out of town. Maybe it’s no big deal—”

“And what? Maybe the letter I received from the legal firm of Peckerhead Backstabber and Jones was just a mistake?”

George opened his mouth to speak but then closed it, saying nothing.

“What?” Harry asked.

George glanced at him then shook his head. “No.”

“No, Faulkner, what? Tell me what you were going to say.”

“I don’t think we’ve known each other long enough.”

“Are you kidding? You can say anything to me.” Harry smiled ruefully. “You usually do. I don’t know why you’re being so f—” He stopped himself. George was right. His language needed some serious self-editing. Funny, he never used to let the foulness of the street extend into his personal life. Of course, back then he’d had a family. Two impressionable boys and a toddler girl. It was Emily, his daughter, who was the living tape recorder. Anything that slipped out of his mouth would be played back—at high volume—usually at some inopportune moment. “I don’t know why you’re being so …” He cleared his throat. “Uncharacteristically restrained.”

Traffic on the Southern State was heavy but still moving at about ten miles an hour faster than the posted speed limit. George finessed his way into the left lane, letting several quick miles slip past before he glanced up.

“Promise you won’t shout at me?”

Harry tried to look hurt. “When do I shout at you?”

George just smiled.

“Okay,” Harry said. “All right. I won’t shout at you. I promise.”

“Maybe,” George said, slowly, carefully, “you should just sign the paper.”

“What?”

“You promised you wouldn’t shout!”

“I’m not fucking shouting!” Harry shouted. He took a
deep breath and tried again, more softly. “I’m not shouting. Gosh darnit.”

“I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but think about it, Harry,” George said. “You’ve seen those kids, what? Two times in the past two years? For a half a day at Christmas? That’s not being a father. That’s being Santa Claus.”

“No,” Harry said. “No. They’re my kids. They’re not orphans. They don’t need to be f—They don’t need to be adopted.”

“Maybe you should take some time off, go out to wherever it is you’ve got them hidden,” George suggested. “And stay for at least a week this time. Emily’s what? Five now? After two years, she probably doesn’t even remember you.”

“Emily’s four and a half. Shaun’s fourteen,” Harry said. And Kevin … Kevin was dead. He would’ve been just about to turn seventeen.

Harry closed his eyes, fighting the waves of sickness that accompanied all thoughts of his oldest son. Even after two years, it still hurt too much. Even after two years, the wounds were too fresh. He was okay as long as he didn’t think about Kev. Problem was, he couldn’t look into Shaun and Emily’s faces without thinking of their older brother.

Was it really any wonder that he never went to visit?

He pushed all thoughts away, keeping his eyes closed, effectively ending his conversation with George. “Wake me when we get to Farmingdale.”

Alessandra was frantic. Twenty-four hours had passed since Michael Trotta’s ultimatum. That left only twenty-four more to go. Her time was half up, and she was no closer to finding the money than she’d been when she started.

She’d slept only a few hours last night. She hadn’t meant to sleep at all. But fatigue had overcome her while sorting through several boxes of Griffin’s papers that had been hidden in the garage, searching for something, anything that might be a clue. She’d woken up in a panic, dreaming of an attack dog leaping at her, razor-sharp teeth going for her face.

She’d gone out to the twenty-four-hour Dunkin’ Donuts and bought five large cups of coffee, cursing herself soundly for falling asleep. She had only forty-eight hours, total, and every minute counted.

By mid-morning the workers were back, replacing the rest of her broken windows. By mid-afternoon, Alessandra had finished the last of her coffee, long stone cold.

Her turquoise dress was streaked with dirt and dust as she stood in the room that had been Griffin’s office and slowly turned in a circle. She’d torn up the carpeting and found nothing. She’d searched and removed all that was left of the furniture and books.

She’d brought the pickax in from the garage, prepared to tear open the walls if necessary. But it seemed so improbable. If Griffin had hidden something in the walls, she would have known about it. Wouldn’t she?

She sat down on the floor, slumping with fatigue, trying desperately to think.

Michael Trotta had said that Griffin stole the money last year. Last April. She tried to think back, tried to remember what they’d been doing, tried to think of something that would set that particular time apart from all of the endless, similar, blurred months of her marriage.

They’d gone on vacation, spent a week in Cozumel, Mexico. God, if Griffin had spent the money gambling or even hidden it down there …

Alessandra forced herself not to think of disaster scenarios.
April. April. Spring. Spring would have been in full bloom. Flowers and …

She sat up.

Griffin. Out in the backyard. Working with a shovel and a rake. Planting that azalea.

She’d come home early from another of the endless baby showers she’d received invitations to as Griffin’s wife. She’d left before dessert was served, before the presents were opened, feigning illness. In truth, she couldn’t take it. She couldn’t bear the sight of even one more disgustingly adorable tiny pink or blue outfit, she couldn’t stand to listen to one more endless conversation about breast-feeding.

She’d been surprised to see Griffin home in the middle of the day—almost as surprised as she was to see him actually doing yard work. They paid an enormous amount for a landscaper to come in once a week and maintain the grounds. Griffin had allergies—and an aversion to getting his hands dirty, too.

Yet there he was, out in the back, planting that azalea. The same azalea he’d made a point to ask for in the divorce settlement. The azalea he was supposed to pick up this month, as soon as the ground thawed enough to dig it free. The azalea she’d set on fire just two nights ago.

With a burst of renewed energy, Alessandra pulled herself to her feet and went out to the garage, searching for a shovel.

“Where’s Emily?”

Shaun looked up from his book, shading his eyes to see his aunt in the glaring sunlight. Her words didn’t make sense, because Emily was right in front of him. She was building a sand castle down at the edge of the water. She was …

Gone.

Her red bucket lay on its side next to a small mound of sand, but Emily was gone.

Shit.

Shaun stood up, his heart pounding. The Pacific Ocean was calm today, but even calm, the waves were strong enough to knock over a four-year-old—even one as tough as Em.

Marge was already purposely striding toward a man and a woman on a blanket nearby, and Shaun could hear her clear voice asking if they’d seen which way the little girl had gone.

Em’s bathing suit was a bright, cheery yellow that made her hair and eyes seem an even darker shade of brown. Shaun scanned the waves but saw no flash of color. Shading his eyes again, he gazed down the beach, spinning first one way and then the next. And there, through the mist rising off the water, he could see it.