Relatively Risky (15 page)

The chair creaked as the old lady shifted position, scattering the images into the shadows again. The silence drew out, but not as uncomfortable. Nell stole a look. Not much had changed in how she looked, but…

“Can I ask you something?”

The old lady stiffened some. She didn't answer, but she didn't say no.

“Do you have any pictures of him? When he was young?”

The slow turn of her head toward Nell was interesting, though Nell wasn't sure why. A slight nod.

“I'll arrange something.” She paused. “I don't have any of…your mother.”

Not exactly a shock. Or maybe she did have one but she had used it for dart practice. “Would you like a photo of—”

A pause, followed by a slow, an almost imperceptible, somewhat grudging nod. This time the silence wasn't as comfortable, though not in a bad way. Just kind of itchy. She wished she knew how to end the meeting. She was sure there wouldn't be any hugging. Probably no “call me” or a “let's do lunch.” The dark gaze, not quite so chilly, studied her for what felt like a long time.

“You're very like your mother.”

Oddly enough, it didn't sound like an insult. Though it probably was.

I
t wasn't much
, Alex thought, looking at the meager pile that—other than a daughter and a butt load of questions—was all that remained of Nell's parents. Very few papers. The letters were from Nell. Either no one else wrote them, or they didn't keep anything but her letters. Their wills. Some photo albums, a Wal-Mart apron, a wrench, a goofy Halloween tie.

“Is this all—everything?” Ben asked.

“There's the music box,” Sarah said, giving her a grin.

The two men looked at Nell. “It was my dad's not-so-secret vice.”

“Not a vice, Nell,” Sarah protested, “more like an endearing quirk. And he got quite good at the carving. It was just—” She stopped with an impish look.

“What?” Alex asked, suspiciously.

Nell grinned. “His music choices were so cliché. It was—”

“Cute,” Sarah insisted. “I gave his Christmas tree box to my Aunt Carol Sueanne a few years ago. It still works great.”

“
O Christmas Tree
?” Ben guessed.

“At least that player doesn't make your teeth hurt.” Nell looked rueful. “Mine is his first. It's just awful, but,” she looked from one to the other of them. “I had to keep it. No one else would love it. He called it Old Bertha. Mom called it The Horror.”

“Where is it?” Alex asked.

Nell said a bit guiltily, “It started in the office, but clients would lift the lid.”

“We were trying to build the business, not drive clients away,” Sarah put in with a grin. “Their eyes would twitch and then get a little wild, because it doesn't stop until its played a complete refrain.”

“So we moved it to a place of honor in the sitting room,” Nell finished.

Sarah stiffened. “Did the old lady notice it? Say anything?”

Nell shook her head. “I guess Dad started making them after the flit.”

Alex exchanged a look with Ben.

“Mind if I grab it?” Ben asked. “I promise not to lift the lid.”

Nell shrugged and nodded but warned, “It's heavy.”

Alex sorted the papers into types. He was relieved to turn his attention to the music box when Ben lugged it in. Though Alex was no expert on music boxes, this one did seem to be a bit unusual by any standards. For one thing, it was big. And square. The craftsmanship was rough. Not that he was an expert in woodworking, but it looked rustic. Almost crude. He wouldn't call it a horror, but it wasn't pretty.

Nell traced one line of the minimal scroll work etched into the top. “Dad said it relaxed him to make them. Mom had a kind of love-hate thing going for them. Some days she was happy to send him off to tinker, others she wanted to hit him with one.”

If they were all as big, that was a serious threat. He and Ben studied it, taking care not to lift the lid, but there wasn't much to learn from its exterior. It was rough hewn, but tight. No warping at the seams. With an apologetic look, he lifted the lid and peered inside, releasing a painfully tinny rendition of
Memories
. Not just a cliché, but a bad cliché. There was not much space under the lid, maybe a couple of inches of nothing. The base seemed solidly fitted in there, too. Again, no warping, suspicious or otherwise. He felt all the way around the interior. He'd opened it and he needed to look like he had a reason for causing them pain. All he got was a sliver for his trouble. He shut the lid and let it finish the refrain, then tipped it gently one way, then the other. No sound of anything shifting. He looked at Ben and shrugged.

“I'll put it back.”

Nell touched the top of the box, then sat back as Ben returned it to the sitting room, a worried crease between her brows.

How would he feel if he found out his dad wasn't who he thought he was? It sometimes boggled him to think about who his dad actually was. Being part of his Baker's dozen had not exactly been a cake walk through the years. Thanks to his friends he'd found out where babies came from too soon for comfort.

When Ben returned, they went through the papers. It didn't take long. Alex lingered a bit over the photos, looking—he told himself—for clues or cues. She had been a cute kid. In the end, they both leaned back, defeated by how innocuous and ordinary it all was. If they'd brought anything but Nell from their previous lives, it wasn't obvious. If it was hard for him to connect them with the wise kids, how much harder must it be for Nell?

Ben rubbed his face. Alex wanted to. Ben hefted the wrench and arched a brow.

“I sold all his tools, but I wanted something—” A smile wavered on her mouth. “I needed to travel light. Who knew it was a family tradition?”

“We need the police file,” Alex said finally, reluctantly. How much risk was there in trying to get into the files? They needed more than the file, though. Who had died in that car bomb? Who had faked the identification of the bodies? Why had someone tried to kill two wise kids? Who had financed their escape? They'd have needed help to get away so clean, wouldn't they? Had her parents killed two kids so they could escape?

“Grannie not-dearest said she tried to help them,” Nell said, as if he'd spoken out loud. “She did not seem that fond of my Mom. Or her mom.”

“We need our old man,” Ben said, without enthusiasm.

Sharing his lack of enthusiasm, Alex still nodded agreement. It was Dad or Curly, and Alex didn't trust Curly. “I'll go talk to him after I shower.”

S
ometimes the mountain
must come to the man.
Bettino Calvino didn't like it, but he didn't have to like something to do it. It felt necessary. He studied the narrow, shabby street through the tinted protective glass of his Humvee. Calvino wasn't prescient. He did not have to be to know he might be in trouble. He'd felt the chill of danger down his back, the sense that change was coming even before Phin's elimination from play. Was it personal or part of something larger?

Just because he was paranoid, that didn't mean someone wasn't out to get him. A lot of someones had motive, he thought with an almost smile. Most of them did not have means or opportunity. He'd have bet the house that Phin was as paranoid or more so. And he'd have lost. They'd been a triangle of power, precariously balanced on that old pact. Twice it had been tested. Twice it had survived. Who had gotten to Phin?

A new player?

Or an old one wakened from a long sleep?

A bear? Did Russian bears hibernate? If Aleksi died next, he'd know. When they'd been waiting on Zafiro to die, he'd wondered why the old man didn't beg for the bullet. Now he knew why Zafiro had clung so long to his empire. At the time he'd considered it a mercy killing, or that's what they'd told themselves. Not that they'd needed a lot of convincing. They'd all wanted to live. It was them or Zafiro. Easy choice.

Calvino didn't feel old, though his body surprised him at times by reacting old. But inside, where it counted, he didn't feel different. His mind was sharp, maybe sharper than when he'd been the young wolf. He'd taken his hits, had stood fast when everything almost came apart. He'd had the hard surf of that pound him into iron.

He thought he'd buried the past and all the people who'd betrayed him. Thirty years. Was it unreasonable to expect the dead to stay dead? Thirty years and he was in, almost, the same place. Almost, he could hear Ellie's mocking laugh as he reached for the door handle.

Both body guards scrambled out, flanking him protectively as Calvino emerged into the spring heat. He stood for a moment regarding the modest dwelling, before striding to the rear door. At his nod, one of the men rapped sharply on the wood. After a long pause, the door opened, revealing a severely battered kitchen. And Zach Baker.

Calvino did not expect surprise and he was not disappointed. One gray brow rose in a query. Calvino matched his brow with the rise of both of his.

After a long pause, Baker stood back and gestured for him to enter, though he held up a hand when his bodyguards tried to follow.

“If he doesn't come out, you can shoot me,” Baker offered, then closed the doors in their faces.

A
lex gripped
the steering wheel of Ben's SUV, his gaze tracking Calvino's return to his Humvee, the two bodyguards covering his retreat. When the Humvee pulled away, when it had passed him, Alex pulled into the spot they'd left. He wasn't too shocked to pass up a prime parking spot.

He got out, but instead of going inside, he headed down the block. If he faced his dad now, he'd know…what would his dad know? What would Zach see in Alex's face? Alex sure as hell didn't know what he felt, what he thought.

He was a guy. They hated feelings. Except being pissed. Okay, so he was pissed. He turned the corner, relieved to be out of sight of the house. He should be pissed. His dad had—what? Alex stopped, looked back the way he came. What had his dad done? Just the facts.

Calvino had come to their house.

Calvino had left their house.

He didn't
know
he'd been inside.

He didn't know he hadn't.

Why would Calvino seek out his dad? He half reached for his cell. Stopped. Started walking again. He reached next corner and turned back in direction of the house. They were grown-ups. He'd ask the question. He'd go inside and say, “You'll never guess who I saw walking away from our back door.”

Then his dad would shake his head and say the one thing that would ease the hard knot in Alex's chest. He was his Dad, so he'd make it…better.

Alex turned the last corner and strode toward home. He slowed as he reached the rutted drive way with the cement that needed to be broken out and replaced. He knew where to step, where to avoid. He reached the back door. It opened, framing his dad in the opening.