Don of the Dead (10 page)

"You're not going to tell me your life story, are you?" The prospect didn't cheer me. I took off walking again, making my way toward where I saw Bill craning his neck, hoping for a glimpse of me. I had already taken stock of the lay of the land and I knew there was nothing between me and the street but a strip of grass. I turned back to Gus but I kept on walking. "Just thinking about it gives me the willies," I told him. "Hour after hour of you telling me how you weren't a criminal. No, thanks."

"There is the police museum down at theJusticeCenter ."

I pursed my lips, considering the suggestion. "They've got documentation?"

Gus puffed out his chest. "I hear they've got a whole display. All about me."

It was a good idea. I wasn't about to let him know it.

"Whatever," I told him instead. I felt the ground beneath my feet change from springy lawn to street and knew I was almost all the way over to where my group was waiting. "We'll talk about it after—"

After that, I'm not exactly sure what happened.

I heard Gus scream my name. At the same time, I felt a weird sort of tingle. Like an icy hand had gone right through me.

It was enough to make me snap to attention and when I did, I saw a funeral procession led by a big black hearse. It was just a couple feet away. Coming right at me.

I jumped back onto the lawn just as the hearse zoomed past. Gus was standing by my side.

I pressed a hand to my heart, hoping to stop it racing. "Thank you."

He waved away my words as if they were nothing. "Nothing to thank me for."

"If you hadn't warned me those cars were there—" Reality hit like I hear it always does after that kind of near-death experience. My eyes filled with tears and I dashed them away with the back of one hand. I was still shivering with that funny sort of icy cold, and when I saw Gus pull his arm back to his side, I knew why. "You tried to grab me. And your hand went right through me, just like it went through the magazines on my desk. And now I feel… "

I hugged my arms around myself, hoping to get rid of the chill that went all the way through to my bones.

"You all right, kid?"

I glanced over to find Gus watching me carefully. "I'm fine." I was, thanks to—

"You warned me, Gus. You saved my life."

He glanced away. "Big deal."

"It's a very big deal. I could have been hit. Or killed. I could have traded in my employee ID card for a headstone."

"Nah!" He stuffed his hands into his pockets and maybe it was a trick of the spring sunshine. I could have sworn I saw him blush.

That's when the truth hit me and a sudden warm flush melted the ice in my veins. I grinned.

"You know what, Gus? You're full of it."

"Full of—"

"You love the big, bad mob boss image. But something tells me that deep down inside, you're a pretty nice guy."

His eyes lit, but that didn't erase the sting of his words as he walked away. "What are you, some kind of jamoke ? Don't fool yourself, sweetheart. I didn't save you because I care. I saved you because you're the only one who can help me."

Three days later, I was still frozen to the bone.

Always an optimist, I did my best to look on the bright side. The spine-tingling cold was a result of Gus trying to grab me, but as weird (not to mention disturbing) as it was to think of his hand going right through me, the resulting chill had its advantages. Even though the spring day was warm and heading for the humid side, I bundled up. I pulled out the pink Abercrombie sweater I'd stashed away with my winter clothes and paired it with coffee-colored pants and brown heels that added a full two inches to my height.

My hair was down around my shoulders in a tumble of curls.

I looked good, and it was a good thing I did. I needed every advantage I could get when I arrived at theJusticeCenter .

"Closed?" In case I hadn't read the sign right the first time, I checked it out again, looking over my shoulder toward the door of theClevelandPoliceHistoricalSocietyMuseum , just a couple feet inside the lobby and to the right of the main doors. "What do they mean, closed?"

The guy sitting behind the security desk wore a plastic badge that said his name was Frank. He was middle-aged and heavyset. Frank had a phone book open on the counter in front of him and he was running a finger down a long column of names. He barely gave me a glance. "That's what the sign says, lady. And that's what it means. It's Saturday. The museum is always closed on Saturday."

"But I didn't know that."

Frank answered with an unconcerned shrug.

"But I came all the way down here and paid four bucks to park."

He yawned.

"But it's my only day off and—"

I was getting nowhere, and I gave up with a sigh. Fortunately, Frank was at the end of a column and looked up at just the right moment. The gleam that brightened his dark eyes told me that sighing did great things for my sweater. He stood, the better to give me a not-so-subtle once-over. It was especially easy for him to get a good look at my boobs since I was a full five inches taller than him.

"I might have seen one of the cops go in there a little while ago," Frank said. "I could check."

I leaned forward just a bit. "I'd be grateful."

"Phone number grateful?"

"Can I get inside the museum?"

He hurried over to find out.

When he returned a couple minutes later, Frank had a piece of paper in one hand. Call me shallow. Or maybe I'd been hanging around with Gus too long and was starting my slide toward the Dark Side. When he handed me aBic , I didn't hesitate to write down a phony name and number. Right before I told Frank to give me a call and scampered toward the museum.

The door was still closed, but when I gave it a push, it swung open.

"Hello?" I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. "Anybody here?"

There was no answer. Not that I cared. Once I was in, I had a perfect chance to look around, and I took it.

It didn't take long. The museum was one big nondescript room painted institutional white. It had a high ceiling and a tile floor, scuffed squares of blue and white. On my left was a cubbyhole that featured a display of illegal drugs. In front of me was a glass case full of old police uniforms. I hurried past both. A motorcycle took up one wall, a jail cell filled another. According to the sign above it, it had been lifted whole from an old police station. The graffiti on the walls inside the cell was testimony to that. A crash course in ballistics—complete with guns and bullets—was featured in an exhibit case in the center of the room. Along the wall to my right…

I gave the black-and-white photos displayed there a quick look and grinned as if I'd found treasure.

With any luck, I had.

One of the photos was familiar, the picture of Gus lying facedown in the middle ofMayfield Road .

AugustinoScarpetti , the sign above the display said. The Life and Times ofCleveland 's Most Notorious Mob Boss.

My heart beat double time and before I could remind myself that there was probably nothing there that I didn't already know and that what I already knew didn't shed any light on Gus's murder, I zipped over and took a look at the rest of the photos displayed on the board. One showed Gus at his First Communion, fresh-faced and angelic. In another, he was older, but not much. He was standing against a wall, holding a sign in front of his chest that had his name written on it along with a bunch of numbers. His first arrest, and he didn't even look scared.

I refused to get suckered in by the whole emotional quagmire that had swamped me as I stood outside Mangia Mania. Who cared how Gus had turned from choir-boy cute to a life of crime? Maybe he was just bad, and maybe bad was the reason he'd ended his days bleeding out into the gutters of Little Italy.

Or maybe the real reason, as Gus had suggested, could be found there in the photographs and memorabilia that—except for his pain-in-the-ass ectoplasm—were all that was left of his life.

There was only one way to find out. I'd brought a notepad with me, and I pulled it out of my purse and fished around for a pen, ready to get to work.

"You don't look like a history buff."

What with Gus materializing at the drop of a hat, you'd think I'd be used to people sneaking up on me by now. I wasn't. At the sound of the voice right behind me, I gasped and whirled around.

Whoever I expected to find, it wasn't a drop-dead gorgeous guy in black pants and a cashmere sweater that fit a chest as solid as if it had been chipped from granite. He had a lean and stubborn chin and hair that was as inky as his sweater. It had enough of a wave to make me itch to run my fingers through it.

In between the chin and the hair was a face that would tempt an angel to mortal sin.

"Sorry." He went through the motions, but he didn't look sorry and I knew why. Like hunks always did, this hunk figured he owned the world and was entitled to do whatever he wanted. No apologies necessary. "I didn't mean to startle you. I thought Frank told you there was somebody here."

"Frank told me—" Was that my voice? The one that sounded as if I was trying to zip myself into jeans that were two sizes too small?

I told myself to get a grip. Guys—even ones as gorgeous as this—had never gotten the upper hand with me. Just so he'd know it, I stepped back and gave this gorgeous guy a long, leisurely look. "Frank said there was a cop in here. No way you're a cop."

He looked me over, too, and when he was done, his dark brows inched up. His voice was as hot as sin.

"You want to see my badge?"

Oh yeah, I wanted to see his badge, all right. Along with the rest of him. But I knew it was bad form to admit it. At least this early in the game.

"Cops are old and gray," I told him, wrinkling my nose so he'd understand right off the bat that "old and gray" wasn't something I was interested in. "They're overweight from eating too many donuts and crabby from all that sugar."

"Hey, we've all got to start somewhere."

"Cops wear uniforms."

"Not when they're in the Detective Bureau."

"Cops don't work in museums."

"You got me there." He kept his tone light and his words casual, but he winced, and that made me think that working in a museum was not something he was proud of. "Cops don't work in museums. Which is why I'm not working. I'm volunteering."

"Out of the kindness of your heart?"

"Kindness my ass." His eyes sparkled even though his expression didn't. "I've got a lieutenant who's got a soft spot for this place."

"And you're trying to get on his good side."

"
Her
good side, and believe me, it isn't easy." He stuck out his right hand. "Quinn Harrison."

"Pepper Martin." We shook hands. His was large and well shaped. He had long fingers and a firm grip.

And if he noticed that at the contact, my hand started trembling just the slightest bit? At least he didn't point it out.

Just like I didn't point out the obvious fact that he was staring at my chest.

There was no use wasting an appreciative audience. I pulled back my shoulders and Quinn grinned his approval.

"So… " He rocked back on his heels. "You come here often?"