Don of the Dead (12 page)

How would you investigateScarpetti's death?"

Quinn was still hanging on to the autopsy report. He tossed it into the box. "Nothing to investigate.

Never is when it comes to these sorts of organized crime killings."

"But wouldn't you wonder? About who was behind the shooting? And why? How would you find out what really happened?"

"I'd do exactly what I'm sure the cops did back then. Talk to all the usual suspects. And I guarantee I'd find out exactly what they found out—nothing. They never could prove who ordered the hit. As to why… " Quinn dropped back into his chair. He tucked the rest of the papers into the box and folded the top closed. "Back then, they probably figured it didn't matter who issued the orders. One dead mob boss was as good as another. And I bet that's exactly what happened. One bad guy whacked another bad guy. End of story."

I knew it wasn't but there was no way I could tell Quinn. Not without looking like a certified nutcase.

I stuck to the facts. Always a better choice than dabbling in possibilities. Especially when one of those possibilities was that the dead guy was definitely dead but not gone. And that this same dead guy was convinced that there was more to his murder than a simple mob hit.

"So you think there's a possibility that Gus's death wasn't investigated as carefully as it could have been?"

I asked Quinn.

He held out one hand, palm out, the gesture so authoritative I wondered if at one time he'd been a traffic cop. "I never said that. I said—"

"That one dead mob boss is as good as another. That it doesn't matter who killedScarpetti . Doesn't justice figure into this anywhere?"

"Hold on!" Quinn studied me, his eyes narrowed. "Are you a reporter or something?"

"No."

"Then a relative? Do you know theScarpetti family?"

I sighed. It was a genuine enough reaction to my frustration, and I hoped the rise and fall of my breasts might distract Quinn long enough to make him notice my body. And forget his accusations.

It didn't work.

Apparently, a cop could be as single-minded as a research scientist.

I sighed again.

"Look, I might as well tell you the truth," I said, even as I prepared for another lie. "I got interested in Scarpetti because of my work at the cemetery. And now I'm thinking I might want to write a book about him. That's why I'm doing this extra research. I thought I could make the story more interesting if I could find out—"

"Something juicy that no one else knows."

"Yeah. Something like that. I thought if I looked through the records, I might come up with something that wasn't mentioned in the newspapers. You know, something that will make my manuscript stand out.

Maybe even get it turned into a movie."

"I hate to burst your bubble, but I don't think it's going to happen. You saw the reports. Gunshot wounds, blood and guts, blah, blah, blah. There's nothing new here."

"Then I guess I'll have to look somewhere else."

Quinn jumped out of his chair, reached for my hand, and dragged me up alongside him.

"I want you to make me a promise," he said.

The comment came out of left field and I hesitated.

Quinn's eyes glittered. "I don't like the way you're talking, Pepper. I want you to tell me that you don't have any crazy ideas about poking around inScarpetti Family business."

"But—"

"These are dangerous people. If I didn't have an appointment with my union attorney in… " He checked his watch. "… exactly twenty minutes, I'd give you chapter and verse about just how dangerous they are.

You understand that these aren't ordinary, everyday folks, don't you?"

"Sure, but—"

"And they're not going to like somebody asking questions. Even when that somebody is as innocent-looking as you."

"Am I?" I stepped closer. "Innocent-looking, I mean?"

The spark in Quinn's eyes told me that he got my message. Even if he wasn't about to be distracted by it.

He tightened his hold on my hand. "I'm serious, Pepper. You may think it's a sort of scavenger hunt and that you'll find information you can use on your cemetery tour or in your book, but RudyScarpetti is as much of a scumbag as his father ever was. That's why they call him the Cootie. If he hears that you've been poking your pretty little nose—"

"Is my nose pretty?"

It was Quinn's turn to sigh. "You're trying to change the subject and it's not going to work. Yes, your nose is pretty. So is the rest of you. But—" His compliments were completely ruined by that one word.

"You have to believe me when I say I know what I'm talking about. I've had some dealings with these people and it hasn't been pretty. I want you to promise. Right here. Right now."

"Promise that—"

"That you won't pry. That you won't ask questions. That you'll stay out ofScarpetti business."

I promised.

And if Quinn didn't happen to notice that behind my back, my fingers were crossed?

It was just as well. There was no use trying to explain that staying out ofScarpetti Family business…

well, it was way too late for that.

Things were finally looking up.

And it wasn't just because of my close-but-not-quite-close-enough encounter with Quinn, either. All right, sure, right before he hurried out to meet with his attorney, we talked about seeing each other again and every time I thought about it, my heart pumped hot and hard, like I'd drained an entire pot of the high-octane coffeeJennine made at the office. But like they say on those hokey TV commercials… wait!

There was even more.

There were three messages on my answering machine when I got back to Garden View on Monday morning. One was from the aforementioned Quinn, who didn't ask if I had the evening free or even if I wanted to go; he'd called in a favor, he told me, and he got us a table. His message was short and sweet: I was to meet him atPietro's the next Thursday night at eight o'clock sharp.

If I listened to half of the female-empowerment speeches Ella spouted, I would have known enough to be insulted by his high-handed tactics.

Guess I'm not much of a listener. I wrotePietro's on my calendar for eight o'clock on Thursday and underlined it. In red.

The second message was from Dan. In spite of how it probably sounds, I hadn't forgotten about him. At least not completely. As opposed to Quinn who, cashmere aside, struck me as the take-no-prisoners type, Dan was one of those guys who held doors for women. Heck, he'd even asked my permission before he walked me home.

There were times a girl needed to feed off the kind of raw energy that shivered around Quinn like the halo of a flame. But there were times she was looking for warm and fuzzy, too.

Until I decided which I wanted—and needed—more, I'd be a dope to let either Quinn or Dan get away.

Especially since when Dan called and asked me if I could please meet him for coffee, he never once mentioned my cerebellum.

The third message…

Well, as soon as I heard it, my spirits soared and the reason was simple. The third message—finally and hallelujah—was from Saks.

"Saks. Saks. Saks." It was Monday evening and I chanted the single, wonderful word in a happy sing-song as I drove upCedar Road towardBeechwood Mall, the city's premier shopping area.

Saks, where I used to shop with wild abandon and my dad's credit card.

Saks, where long before I ended up leading old people around the graves of dead people, I'd applied for a job, number one, because I had to pay my rent and number two (and far more important), because I loved everything from the ambiance to the merchandise to the pricey smell of the place. I'd filled out the application so long before, I figured they'd lost it in the shuffle. But then…

A call. From Saks. About a job.

Saks.

Where I'd bought my wedding gown.

The ugly thought struck out of nowhere, and I got rid of it with a twitch of my shoulders. There was no room in my head for negative energy. Not that evening. That evening was about positive vibes, a confident attitude, and—with a spot of luck and the skilled application of a little of my legendary chutzpah—a favorable outcome.

I eased my car into a parking place, checked my lipstick in the rearview mirror, and headed inside. I hoped that by the time I walked out again, I'd have an offer for a new job.

Yeah, I know. It would mean leaving Garden View. That, of course, was the whole point. Not only did the Saks job pay two dollars more an hour than my job at the cemetery, but getting away from the mausoleums and headstones would also mean that I could put a whole lot of distance between myself and Gus.

So what if I hadn't solved his little mystery?

What were the chances of that happening, anyway?

And who ever said that I cared enough to really try?

The woman in Human Resources said I was "ideal." The shift manager in Women's Wear used the word

"perfect." After an hour and a half of filling out papers, smiling my way through interviews, and completing not one but two personality profiles, I had only one more hurdle to cross: the manager of the shoe department.

It was a good thing I'd used my head as well as my fashion sense and slipped on myFerragamos before I left the apartment.

I arrived at Shoes wearing a hopeful smile, my newly created personnel file under my arm, waiting for this crucial and final stamp of approval. The department manager's name was Charles. He was young and black and he was dressed in a navy suit that fit his tall, thin frame to perfection. He moved with elegance and efficiency, and after only a couple of minutes watching him in action, I knew I'd like working with him.

He had a real knack for knowing when to smother a customer with attention and when to back off. He also had a wonderful sense of style. He paired shoes and purses as if it were a talent he'd been born with and I, for one, had no doubt he had been. The fact that I had been, too, made us soul-mates of sorts, and by the time he was un-busy enough to spend ten minutes sitting and chatting with me, I was so giddy from the smell of expensive leather and the promise of a life after the afterlife of Garden View, I was tempted to ask Charles if along with every other Sunday off, he could guarantee me a ghost-free work environment.

I might actually have done it. Except that in the middle of a serious discussion of the advantages ofMiu Miu versus Kate Spade, I looked toward a chichi display of even more chichi summer sandals and straw bags—and saw Gus.

My heart stopped, the astonishment so complete and so unexpected, it solidified inside me until every inch of my body was flash frozen. I'd been describing my idea of the perfect spring outfit to Charles and my arm went numb in the middle of aVanna -like gesture toward a pair of silk and lizard T-strap pumps.

I swear, if I hadn't been a) in public, b) in the middle of a job interview, and c) wondering if, finally, I hadn't completely lost my mind, I would have screamed.

Instead, before I could stop myself, I popped out of my chair, my arm still extended, my body language now more accusatory than
it
was graceful. "You can't be here," I said.

"Excuse me?"