Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman (5 page)

“And bandages.”

“Thank you, Doogie Howser. I think I can treat my own wounds.”

His tail flicked, but he stayed mercifully quiet.

Gritting my teeth against the pain, I used my fingertips to pull the biggest shards of glass out of my knees. It hurt like hell. I tried to remember whether I had any Percocet left over from the root canal I’d had three years earlier.

“Can we watch
Wheel of Fortune
?” the lizard asked.

“You like
Wheel of Fortune
?”

He nodded. “I’d like to buy a vowel.”

The little guy was full of surprises. I glanced at the microwave clock.
Wheel
didn’t start for another forty minutes. “Can I ask you a question?”

“You’re wondering how a creature with a brain the size of mine can spell? I told you, I enjoy intellectual challenges.”

“Uh huh. That’s cool and everything, but I had a question about me.”

He stood up, balancing on his tail, and crossed his arms over his . . . chest. “Go ahead.”

“Do you think I look like a killer?” Grabbing the tweezers I attacked the smaller particles imbedded in my knees while he mulled over his answer. When an uncomfortable pause stretched on, I glanced over at him.

Head cocked, he was stroking his chin with one of his . . . hands, obviously deep in thought. Finally he spoke. “That’s an odd question, Mags. Even for you.”

“Never mind. Forget I asked.” Something told me I didn’t want to hear his answer.

“I’m curious as to what spurred this line of inquiry.”

I sighed. I’d really hoped to avoid getting into this whole thing. “Someone offered me money to kill someone. I was thinking maybe he could see something in me . . . see that I was capable of that.”

“Thomas Alva Edison once said,
If we did all the things we were capable of doing, we would literally astound ourselves.”

“Yeah, but he was inventing light bulbs, not playing the part of the Angel of Death.”

“Do
you
think you look like a killer?”

I shrugged, plucking the last piece of glass from my flesh. I watched a small, red rivulet of blood spread over the torn-up skin. “Everyone says I look like my father. He’s a killer. So maybe I do.”

“Did you accept the offer?”

“Of course not!” I pulled the pack of alcohol-soaked pads from the first-aid kit. I ripped it open with my teeth. “How could you even think I would?”

“Sometimes questions reveal more than answers,” he replied mysteriously.

“I couldn’t kill someone.”

“Then why ask the question?”

“Because it’s been bugging me. I was wondering if I give off some crazy-eyed Charles-Manson-wannabe vibe or something.”

“I wouldn’t say so. No.”

“Then why’d he ask me?’

“He didn’t give you a reason?”

“He said . . . Well, here’s the thing. I sort of attacked, physically attacked, the guy he wants dead.”

“You did?”

“But the psycho-killer jerk totally deserved it. He threw his son down the stairs, and then he tried to smother the kid with a pillow. I had to stop him from doing that.”

“So perhaps he deserves to die.”

“I’d considered that possibility.” Actually I’d come to that conclusion, but I wasn’t about to voice the thought. I swiped the alcohol pads over my knees. It felt like I was being stung by dozens of hornets. If I could have cried, tears would have come to my eyes. I should have found and taken the Percocet. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck that hurts!”

The lizard waited for my pained outburst to subside before he asked, “So you saved the boy’s life?”

“That’s what they said.”

“Interesting.”

“What is?”

“The whole dichotomy of taking a life versus saving one.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fascinating. Does this mean you think I’m capable of killing someone?”

“Do you think you are?”

Chapter Eight

“H
EY THERE,
C
HIQUITA!”

“Hey.” I really wasn’t in the mood to chat with Armani.

I’d spent the night before plunked in front of the television with the talking lizard. Who, in case you’re interested, really sucks at
Wheel of Fortune
. He just doesn’t get the clues. At all.

I actually was feeling pretty damn superior when Pat and Vanna waved good-bye. I’d done a much better job at solving the puzzles than God. My victory was short-lived.

The lizard is some sort of
Jeopardy
-savant. You know the annoying kind who knows the most obscure trivia, does the
New York Times
crossword puzzle in pen every day of the week, and actually understands what the hell Pi is.

So I’d gotten my ass whipped watching a game show while I chowed down on a gourmet feast of microwaved Lean Cuisine, half a bottle of wine, and a bag of chips (not the single-serving size mind you, but a real, honest-to-goodness, bag).

I’d fallen asleep on the couch and woken up coated in the grease and crumbs of the chips. And here I’d been thinking I’d inhaled them all.

I had to take a shower to get the smell of rancid vegetable oil out of my hair. The water felt like it was slicing and dicing my knees all over again.

Finally I’d managed to drag my hungover self in to work.

Of course, once I was there I took a string of automobile accident claims. That’s my job. Unfortunately all of my callers were vying for the Stupidest-Driver-Ever-Allowed-Behind-the-Wheel award.

I got a woman who didn’t know how to spell the names of the passengers who were in her vehicle (they were her children), a guy who didn’t know what car he’d been driving, and someone using one of those creepy voice distortion machines who didn’t want to give his/her name or policy number and then threatened to report me to a supervisor for not helping them.

By the time my lunch break rolled around, I had a throbbing headache and an upset stomach, not to mention the fact that I was seriously considering taking a chair to Harry’s head, despite the fact he’s my boss.

Smelling like week-old pepperoni, he kept leaning over my shoulder under the guise of looking at my computer monitor when what he was really doing was checking out my cleavage.

So I really was in no mood to chat with Armani.

That is, until she suggested, “Let’s eat outside.”

Outside. Away from phones, computers, and Harry. “Sounds good.”

I logged off the system and got to my feet. My knees were killing me.

Shuffling like an old lady, I followed Armani outside, shielding my eyes from the abnormally bright sun.

“Jesus,” she said, looking back at me, “You move worse than me. What’s wrong?”

“I fell. Cut up my knees on some broken glass.”

“You should be more careful.”

“Ya think?”

We settled at a picnic table under a tree. A brook babbled nearby. It would have been a nice, peaceful place to nurse my hangover headache . . . if Armani had just shut up.

“Remember that reading I told you about?”

I nodded. Bad idea. My stomach roiled mutinously at the movement. I lay down along the length of the bench and closed my eyes. That was a little better.

“Ends up she didn’t want a reading.”

“I thought you said she was a referral.”

“I did. She was. For sex.”

“You, the great and powerful psychic, couldn’t predict that?”

“Bitch!” She fell silent for a long time.

I wondered if I’d hurt her feelings. I couldn’t afford to lose someone else right now. “I’m sorry. Don’t mind me. I’m hung over.”

“A three-way.”

I sighed. Armani Vasquez is not only the Latina poster girl for Americans with Disabilities at Insuring the Future, she’s also been voted “Most Likely to Spill her Sexual Exploits.” Whether or not you have any interest in hearing them.

I considered covering my ears and belting out “God Bless America,” but I didn’t think she’d take the hint. Instead, I remained motionless and silent, hoping she’d think I’d fallen asleep.

“They were both DPWs.”

I didn’t make a peep. This stuff was too much for me on a good day, forget about it when I’m hung over. Apparently there’s some whole sexual fetish thing concerning people who are disabled or disfigured. I don’t get it, and quite frankly, since it’s not my thing, I don’t particularly want to get it. I feel the same way about math, fashion, and white bread.

But it is Armani’s thing. She’s always hooking up with these people.

“Wait!” she said suddenly. “Did you just say you’re hung over?”

“Uh huh.”

“So you took my advice? You embraced your inner Chiquita?”

“I still don’t understand how my WASPy Caucasian self could possibly be a Chiquita.”

‘And I told you. It’s a state of mind. A Chiquita is a cute, smart, passionate girl. I know she’s inside you.”

I wasn’t so sure.

“Did you get your freak on?”

Yes, she actually uses that phrase in conversation.

“Did you party ’til dawn?”

“Oh yeah. Me, Pat, and Alex had a wild night.”

Armani squealed with delight and slapped her thigh (her version of clapping). “I want to hear all about it!”

“Be real. I haven’t had a date in a year, let alone sex, and you think your spraying me with Glow and telling me to set my inner Chiquita free turned me into some—”

“Miss Lee?”

That was not Armani’s voice. It was too deep. It was too male. It was too damn amused.

Oh crap, how much of my outburst had he heard?

Opening my eyes, I bolted upright.

I had to clap a hand over my mouth to keep from puking the previous night’s feast on the picnic table.

“I’m Detective Mulligan. I’d like to ask you a few questions about your . . . altercation with Alfonso Cifelli.”

I looked up at him. I knew we’d never met, but his face seemed oddly familiar. Both his forehead and his chin seemed a bit long, which gave his face an almost oblong appearance. Aviator sunglasses hid his eyes. A stack of red hair, almost copper in the sunlight, was being ruffled by the breeze. I barely glanced at the badge he held out for my inspection.

“I know who you are!” Armani cried excitedly.

I winced as her shriek drilled into my brain.

“You’re the Courageous Cop!”

It was his turn to wince. I wondered why. I also wondered how I hadn’t recognized him myself. Footage of a dramatic rescue he’d made had played on the news. His picture had been on the front page of the paper. His face was plastered on billboards all over the state.

“Wow, an honest-to-God hero.” Armani sighed reverentially, like she was seeing the Holy Mother or something.

Personally I thought it was a bit much.

“Just doing my job, ma’am.”

Armani frowned. She hated the ma’am label.

“Which is actually why I’m here. As I said, I need to ask Miss Lee some questions.”

“Is she in trouble?”

I shot her a dirty look to let her know that I’d heard that hopeful note in her voice. She gave me a big, all-teeth smile in response.

Secretly I was glad she’d asked the very question I’d been wondering myself. Maybe someone had overheard my conversation with Delveccio. Or worse, what if someone had been listening in on my discussion with Godzilla?

“No, ma’am. She’s not in trouble, but I would like to speak to her in private if you don’t mind.”

I was shocked when Armani stood without an argument. Usually she wanted to be smack dab in the middle of everything. “See you later, Chiquita.” She winked at me, an overly exaggerated wink signaling . . . what? She thought I should try my Chiquita charms on the nice police detective who’d heard me talking about hooking up with strangers I met on the street?

I waved her off. Still smiling, she limped away.

Detective Mulligan slid into the seat opposite me. “This won’t take long.”

“I already told the officer at the hospital everything.”

“This is just standard follow-up. Nothing to worry about.” He was more soft-spoken than I’d expect in a man of action, willing to put his life on the line.

“Your sister is a patient at the hospital?”

“My niece. Katie. My sister’s daughter.”

He nodded. “Can you just explain how you came to . . . interrupt Mr. Cifelli?”

“I collided with him in the hall.”

The detective seemed to go still. I wished I could see his eyes, but the sunglasses hid them.

“And I tried to apologize, but he was a jerk. I’d just come from my sister’s funeral and I was distracted. I—”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he murmured gently.

I wondered how often he had to utter that phrase in his line of work. I was surprised that he managed to make his condolence sound sincere. “Thank you. I was distracted. I didn’t mean to run into him, and I did apologize right away.”

He nodded, offering silent encouragement to continue with my story.

“And then he shoved me into the wall.” My hands curled into fists at the memory. “I just got so mad. I followed him into the room to tell him off.”

The detective pulled a roll of wintergreen Lifesavers from his shirt pocket and offered me one.

I could smell the minty-fresh flavor from across the table. In my hungover state it made me want to retch. “No, thank you.”

“So . . . you went in the room to tell him off, and . . .”

“He had a pillow over Dominic’s face.”

“You knew the boy’s name?” He popped the mint into his mouth and chewed, slowly and deliberately.

“Not then.” Apparently he didn’t understand that the point of the candy was to allow it to dissolve on one’s tongue. The relentless crunching grated on my nerves.

“But you found out later?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

I hesitated for a second. It probably wasn’t a good idea to mention Tony/Anthony Delveccio. That was a can of worms better left unopened. “Someone told me.”

“Who?”

“I really don’t remember. There were so many doctors, nurses, and other hospital staff milling around.”

“Family?”

I considered playing dumb, but decided that was too far-fetched, and I’d end up getting caught in the lie. “Yes, of course! I probably heard some family members use Dominic’s name.”

“Probably. So you see the pillow and then what?”

“I hit him with a chair. Twice. But then he got it away from me and . . .” My voice cracked as I remembered my terror in that moment.

“Take your time.”

“He swung it at me.”

“And he missed?”

I nodded emphatically. He’d most definitely missed.

“That’s the part I don’t get. Alfonso Cifelli is a bad guy. He’s got multiple assault-and-battery arrests on his record, but you, who, as far as I can tell, have no special hand-to-hand combat training, managed to beat him.” His soft voice was now laced with tempered steel.

“No, no! I didn’t
beat
him. I avoided him.”

“How?”

I looked away. I couldn’t believe that I was about to admit my stealthy ninja move to this man. I blurted out my confession as one long word. “Istoppeddroppedandrolled.”

“You what?

I sighed. “I stopped. I dropped. And I rolled. He was swinging that chair at me. It was the only thing I could think to do. Fire avoidance 101.”

The corners of his mouth quirked, but he had the good grace not to actually laugh at me. “Like they teach to kindergartners?” The edge in his voice was gone. Now he just sounded amused.

“Exactly!”

“I never understood why they drill that into five-year-olds who will probably never get near an open flame, but they don’t even mention it to adolescents when they give them Bunsen burners in junior-high chemistry classes.”

I grinned. “I never thought of it that way.”

“Maybe they’re afraid that having boys and girls rolling around on the floor together would necessitate additional sex-ed classes.”

For a split second I thought there was a spark of sexual tension hovering in the air. Yeah, I was so lonely that the mere mention of the word
sex
in conversation had me misreading signals.

He grinned and continued, “Or maybe they’ve just figured out that people don’t retain much after the age of ten.”

The guy was certainly
not
hitting on me.

Embarrassed by my desperateness, I managed a weak smirk. “Or in my case, five.”

“That was a very brave thing you did, Miss Lee. Dumb, but brave. Thank you for your time.”