Hell on the Heart (5 page)

Both the deputies looked surprised; whether it was by his question or the fact he was still in the room was difficult to determine.

The derogatory joke, which did not take a rocket scientist to figure out, had the deputies snickering like Beavis and Butthead, followed by a round of high-fiving. John grit his teeth annoyed to have to pry each piece of information out of them.

The deputies exchanged a suspicious look. Finally Carl shrugged and cleared his throat. “The gypsies live in a compound outside of town. Follow farm road 82 past the Quick Stop and Sabrina’s Dress Shop. About five miles south.”

John jotted down the directions.

Bobby Joe sneezed and wiped his tan uniform sleeve across his nose. “But at this time of day she’ll be at work over on Marshall Street, past the Parsons’ Grocery Store that burned down last year. You’ll know it when you see the yellow dog out front.”

A yellow dog? What the hell kind of directions were these? John tried another tactic. “What’s the name of the company?” He’d Google it.

“All Seeing Eye. Her father and uncle own it. They’re PIs. She’s the one who called, but they’ll all be involved. You don’t see one without another.”

The deputies exchanged a look. Finally, Carl shrugged. “Go ahead, but we don’t have no interview room, you’ll have to talk to them in their cell.”

“No problem.”

# # #

An hour later John and D’Sean sat in their rented vehicle. D’Sean’s elbow was propped against the door and supported his head as he flipped through pages of notes.

“This town gets what it pays for,” John said, seething from his encounter with the incompetent deputies. “Bobby Joe claims his salary’s so small he has to live at home with his mother. Which, according to him, is hell on his sex life.”

D’Sean snarled, holding up a hand in warning. “Don’t tell me what goes on in the back of the patrol car.” He sat up straight and tossed the pages onto the dashboard. “Let’s go see this hag and then hit the road.”

D’Sean hesitated, but John knew he couldn’t resist a bet. “You’re on, but she’s gotta be both. It’s almost five. Still at work, do you think?”

“Let’s hope so, I suspect it’ll be more difficult to get into their gated housing compound.”

Chapter Five

The All-Seeing Eye was a fairly innocuous building. Black brick, two story with solid steel doors. No signage. The yellow dog sprawled across the sidewalk, thumped his tail in greeting, too lazy to rise.

“You sure this is it?”

John verified the address. “Why no sign on the door?”

He turned the handle, pushed open the heavy door and stepped out of the wind into an enclosed alcove. Bullet-proof glass ran from the waist-high counter to the ceiling broken by only a speaker vent displaying an empty receptionist work station.

To the right of the counter was another steel door. John pushed the handle and shoved his shoulder against the un-giving surface.  

“Eye in the sky,” D’Sean murmured and tilted his head in the direction of the security camera.

“Hello,” John raised his voice.

A plump woman shuffled around the corner. Her dark hair was bound in a messy top-knot, ink stained her fingers as though she’d been writing with an old fashioned fountain pen. She wasn’t old, maybe mid-forties, but her black dress made her look frumpy and out of date. “Sorry, I was catching up on the filing and didn’t hear the door open.” She peered over the teal blue and hot pink frames of her eyeglasses, studying both men from foot to head. “We’ve been expecting you. Please come in.” She pushed a button. Behind the door, the men heard a loud click.

This time the door swung open. They were expected? The animosity had been so extreme he hadn’t thought the Sheriff’s office would call. But maybe he’d misjudged how a small town operated.

“Take a seat in the conference room, others will be right with you.” She pointed toward a door. “There’s coffee already made and apple strudel’s on the counter. Help yourself.”

They were being handled. John hated being handled. What was with this town? How long would it take to get down to the facts of the situation? He glared at the woman. Dark hair, dark eyes. She could be the gypsy bitch. “Are you Cezi Romney?”

She moved past them. Despite her weight her movements were graceful. John and D’Sean were forced to follow her swaying hips simply to continue the questioning.

By the time they entered the small conference room, she had a cup in one hand and the coffee pot in the other. She thrust the cup in John’s direction and bent to open a small refrigerator and held out a Mountain Dew to Lassiter. A thousand ants crawled up John’s spine.

“Do you need a glass and ice?”

His partner, a man known for maintaining his cool under fire, looked as visibly startled as John felt. “No. How do you know I drink Mountain Dew?”

The woman closed the short distance between them. Her glasses hung by a beaded chain on her ample bosom bouncing with each step. She peered into the black man’s eyes. Fearless? Or stupid? Even stupid people knew better than to tweak a tiger’s tail.

“You aren’t sleeping,” she said, her voice light and musical, soothing in a way John hadn’t heard before.

He looked at his co-worker’s face and noticed the dark circles under D’Sean eyes and the weariness in his face. Why the hell hadn’t he been told him something was bothering his partner?

Without invitation the woman cupped a hand around D’Sean’s throat under his ear. Had John not been watching, he might have missed the flash of surprise, but the angry snarl should have made anyone with a lick of sense back away.

The gypsy woman didn’t move. “When is your mother’s surgery?” 

Instead of pushing her hand away, D’Sean clasped her wrist. His rich cocoa fingers contrasted with the milky whiteness of her arm.

John couldn’t see her expression but his friend’s eyes were cold, his features impassive. Except for the twitching muscle in his jaw, D’Sean looked like what he was. A warrior. Afraid of nothing.

Then his eyes closed, his chin dropped, his hand released her wrist and formed a fist as he massaged the skin that shielded his heart. “Tomorrow morning.”

D’Sean’s mother was scheduled for surgery in the morning? For what? In eight years, D’Sean had only spoken fleeting words about his family and John never pried. The men on his team were entitled to their privacy.

“Go to her. She’s calling for you, Binky.”

If a black man could go pale, D’Sean did. His lips opened and closed like a freshly caught carp. A full minute passed before he was able to respond to her words. “It’s minor day surgery. I’ll be home in time to see her.”

“Does your mother believe that?” Her voice gently questioned. “A lot of people think minor surgery is on someone else.”

D’Sean choked back a startled noise and rolled his eyes. “Yeah,” he agreed. “If it happens to her, its definitely major.” The lines of tension around his mouth lessened. 

The woman pulled back her hand and stepped back. The heaviness in the air visibly eased. “I’ll tell Cezi you’re here,” she said as she walked from the room.

John raised the cup he still held to his lips and took a sip. Immediately his mouth and throat rebelled as he choked down the first swallow. The coffee had the consistency of pancake syrup and was almost as sweet. No sink for him to toss it. How could anyone drink this?

But his issues were negligible. D’Sean gripped the back of the chair and viciously twisted the screw cap on the plastic bottle. In one long swig, D’Sean raised the drink to his lips and gulped it down like a man dying of thirst. Lowering the bottle he belched and then barked out a staccato laugh.

John searched for words to offer and finding none, took another sip of coffee to fill the moment. D’Sean looked in his direction for the first time. John waited with the cup at his mouth. When neither spoke, he drank again.

“Spooky, huh?” He finally broke the silence. “I’m sensing why the sheriff’s office might have a fear of gypsies.” John spoke quietly, hoping his little joke would relieve the tension in the room. He crossed to the pot and refilled his cup. The sweet syrup was growing on him.

Through clenched teeth, D’Sean’s muttered, “Let’s get this over with.”

When John pictured a group of men defined as male gypsies, he visualized long hair, gold earrings, puffy shirts and flamboyant scarves, not the two middle-aged men in expensive tailored suits and Wall Street haircuts who strode into the room moments later. An air of dominance surrounded them like a comfortable cape. John worked in DC, land of powerful men. Without a doubt they would not only fit right in, but would be influential in the right circles. Armadillo Creek, Texas was the least likely place for these men to appear. Yet, seeing them reminded him, the men they sought would be able to hide in plain sight also. And had been doing it for years.

The shorter man with an easy grin and graying temples assumed control. Both refrained from stepping close enough to shake hands. “Luca Romney.” He tilted his head in greeting. “My brother, Nicholae, understands English better than he speaks it, so unless you have a specific question addressed to him I will speak.”

“Agent John Stillwater and Agent D’Sean Lassiter, FBI.” The men flashed their badges in unison. John immediately took charge of the conversation. “Armadillo Creek had a murder Friday night. The Sheriff’s office believes you,” he hesitated, not wanted to use the phrase ‘you gypsies’. He wouldn’t have liked the phrase ‘you Indians’ and Lassiter would have thought the words ‘you blacks’ were a call to battle. “Were you witnesses?”

Both men crooked one corner of their lips in the same fashion. “I have no idea why the Sheriff’s office thinks that,” Luca said. Neither man appeared the least upset by the question.

Instead, Luca spoke directly to D’Sean. “My sister apologizes if she upset you. She’s very good at guessing problems of the…” He and his brother exchanged a glance and they spoke rapidly in a guttural language. “…problems of a physical nature. She spoke only from the heart and did not mean to startle you.”

D’Sean shrugged like it meant little to him, but the lie failed to convince, when he asked, “How did she know about my mother?”

Luca shrugged. “All my life I’ve wondered the same question. Women in our family keep their secrets.”

The gypsies worried him. Their sister bordered on frumpy, yet these men could poise for the cover of GQ. Nicholae with his silver hair and suave demeanor gave no impression of following the conversation, but John doubted he missed a thing. In fact of the two men, it was the silent Nicholae, John sensed was the real man in charge.

“Are all your employees family?” John asked, trying to draw an org chart in his mind. When Luca nodded, John continued as the men took seats around the table. “How many?”

“Only the three you’ve met…”

Maniacal feminine laughter drifted through the closed door. Both the gypsy men lowered their gazes to the floor in a poor attempt to shield their amusement. “And occasionally Norman Bates’ mother joins us.”

The door flung open and a small pixie with a purple dew rag tied around her head, orange safety goggles and an oversized lab coat burst in. “I knew I could do it.”

John was surprised by the lyrical tone emitting from a body no taller than that of a twelve-year-old. If she’d worn a towel as a cape and announced she was a superhero, it would have appeared in character. Both John and D’Sean rose out of politeness.

“The fluming chamber worked.” She did a half circular dance and came to a dead stop in front of the two agents. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were occupied.” Her dimples disappeared.

Luca nodded, but for the first time Nicholae spoke, “Czigany.” His firm tone declared FBPA agents were not allowed to use an affectionate nickname. No need to ask which man was her father.