Relatively Risky (21 page)

“That's some shiner.”

Nell touched her eye. She'd left or lost her ice pack. She couldn't remember where. “Banged it on the steering wheel.”

He frowned. “You were in an accident?”

Technically it wasn't an accident when she'd made it happen, but it was too complicated to explain—not that she wanted to explain to him, so she gave a tiny, noncommittal shrug. She wished she knew a way to retreat. And wondered why she felt she couldn't. She didn't feel like she could go forward either. Didn't want to get close to him or turn her back on him. Her bump throbbed.

“I need some ibuprofen.” That meant she had to go toward him. Get past him and everything would be all right, right? She sucked it up and took a step toward him, then another. There was no upstream at sea level, but it felt like trying to swim up something. He stepped to the side, as if to let her pass, but the next step brought her in line with the laundry room door. It wasn't usually standing open. Something caught her eye, and she looked, even though there was a distant, gut twitch against it.

The second goon lay sprawled in front of the washer. And the dryer. He was long. And limp. “Does…he need help?”

“No. Not anymore.”

“Oh.” Nell blinked a couple of times. “Did he try to—” —kill you, she'd meant to ask, but he cut in.

“He got in my way.”

“Oh.” Nell edged back, lest she too get in his way.

“I'm Roger Dunstead,” he said, then added, “Junior.”

“Of course.” Without the clarification, she'd have surely thought he was his dead father. Okay, with all the people turning out to not be dead, maybe she did need the clarification. “Do they call you Junior?” Oh crap. What were goons called? “Or Mr. Dunstead?” She attempted a bright, clueless look, as if the name meant nothing to her. Didn't want to be disrespectful to the guy who probably had a gun—oh yeah, there it was. Not quite pointed at her, but definitely deployed. Suppressor, too.

“I can shoot Baker when he comes in,” he said, his tone calm and cool. “Or you can step in there. Stay real quiet until he's passed by.”

Nell didn't hesitate. Alex wasn't expecting a problem. She couldn't, she wouldn't let him be gunned down. Also couldn't let herself think about the others who must be somewhere in the house…couldn't worry right now about whether they were dead or alive…

She stepped carefully over the dead guy, trying not to look too closely at him, while somehow managing to see the bullet hole—she wrenched her gaze away and leaned against the dryer. Her knees had lost structural integrity again. She had a gun, but it was stuck in her pants and she was pretty sure Junior would notice if she tried to get at it.

He followed her in, shifted the downed goon's legs out of the way, turned on the light—there was no window—and shut the door. He did it matter-of-factly, efficiently even, without taking his eyes, or his gun, off her. Not sure why this seemed odd. Goons would need to be efficient, or they wouldn't last long.

It was bad enough to smell the dead guy's nasty aftershave, but the close quarters also brought to the forefront her own need for a bath after her adventures in the cemetery and car crashing. She took a cautious sniff—no reason to give him more reasons to shoot her—and regretted it. Oh yeah, she needed a shower and clothes change. Her gaze seemed unable to stay off the body, so she turned it to the shelf of laundry-type stuff. They were almost out of laundry soap…needed to get it on the list…

She knew her thoughts were trivial. Trivial helped keep the scream down in her chest. It kept trying to crawl up her throat and if she screamed, Alex would come running—

The creak of the door opening made her jump. Footsteps coming down the hall. She tensed, wondering if he'd shoot Alex anyway? Why should she believe him?

A
lex stowed
his cell and walked up to the door, his steps as slow as his thoughts. The word about Curly was spreading through the family. Frank was worried about Zach. So was Alex. Everyone wanted Alex to talk to Zach. He wanted to talk to his dad, too, once he figured out what to say to him, what to ask him…his frown deepened.

It was a strange thing to realize your dad had lived a life you knew little about. That he had secrets. Why hadn't his dad mentioned Charlie's connection to Ellie Calvino that night? Or, if he didn't want to do it in front of Curly, why not later? He frowned. He knew the names of his dad's siblings, for the most part, but Charlie's name hadn't come up much. He'd thought he was dead, not missing. Was he presumed dead? Did it matter now? It felt like it did, though logic said it was more of a footnote than a clue to anything.

Alex rubbed his face, leaned his back against the closed door, just for a minute. Or four. His head hurt. Pretty much every part of his body hurt. And tired? He'd passed tired some time in the night. Rather thought he was now in sleep deprived zone. On the fast track to zombie. He wanted to go lie down somewhere dark and sleep until he couldn't sleep anymore. Then he wanted to sort the mess into something less messy.

Then he could, maybe, talk to his dad. And face his siblings. Face Ben and tell him he was without wheels, too.

Two days.

Had it only been two days since Nell rode into his car jacking and upended his life? Forty freaking eight hours? What would she do with three? If she had just minded her own business—

His thoughts ground to a painful halt, because, yeah, his brain hurt, too.

If Nell hadn't ridden into his life, she'd be dead.

Oh, there was still some doubt who had been the target of the first shooting, but his gut had no doubts. Alex might have a cavalcade of perps who hated him, but most of them were too smart to shoot a cop. They didn't like the heat.

All three wise guys had a next-in-line who wouldn't like an heir to two of the organizations popping up. The only one who might benefit if she lived was Afoniki. It gave him a shot at bringing it all back together. Alex had a feeling the slime ball had figured it out, too. He'd tried to be suave before the shooting started.

Calvino had shown up without his heir apparent, who might feel threatened enough by Nell's existence to try to take her out. And the old lady? According to Nell, that meeting had been chilly. In fact, Nell had yet to have a happy family moment. His family might make him crazy, but as far as he knew, none of them had tried to kill him—at least intentionally.

He rubbed his face again. It didn't help. Time to face the music and he hoped to hell it didn't involve air guitar. Almost reluctantly, he smiled. Nell did play some mean fake drums. Okay, maybe he wasn't completely sorry she'd ridden into his life.

He opened the door and stepped inside.

N
ow
, when it was too late, Nell wondered why she'd believed Dunstead when he said he wouldn't hurt Alex. Didn't Miss Marple advise against believing what people said? And this was a bad guy who probably hadn't been on speaking terms with the truth for years.

As if he heard her thoughts, or suspected a revolt incoming, he murmured, “You kill a cop, you get more heat.”

Not a stupid man, despite making his stand in the laundry room. Nell tried not to be offended by the notion that her death wouldn't result in “heat.” She did have other things to think about. If this was a kidnapping, then what happened next?

It seemed to take a long time for the steps to pass the door and continue on. She exhaled a tiny sigh of relief. The air was too nasty for a big sigh. Damn, she could taste it in her mouth. After another long pause for Alex to get down another long hall, she heard the distant murmur of voices that seemed to say that Alex had reached the kitchen safely. And that someone was alive in there to talk to him. She gripped the edge of the dryer and tried to figure out what to do next.

Funny how strong the will to survive was. For the first time, she felt a connection to those two wise kids.

“So, now what?” She kept her voice low. At the moment this was between her and Junior. She didn't have much time. It wouldn't take Alex long to smell a rat. He was a smart guy. And there was a lot of rat to smell.

“I want the proof,” he said, turning so his back was against the door.

“The—” She didn't have to pretend to be puzzled.

“She told me you had it. The proof your father killed mine.”

“She…” It wasn't really a question. He worked for grandma. But there was something else in his voice. “My…grandmother told you that?”

He stiffened. “I'm more kin to Mrs. St. Cyr than you are. I've been here for her when no one else was.”

Yeah, between kin it was all formal names and all. Not that grannie had asked Nell to call her anything family-like. But it did seem that Grandma had wound him up real good, like she'd tried to do with Nell, she realized. Had she pointed him at St. Cyr, too?

“She tried to kill my father.” Nell didn't actually know this, but it felt true and might be a way to mess with his head, particularly if Dunstead thought the old lady had material instincts. “Her own son. You really think she'll be loyal to you?”

“Phil betrayed her. She told me all about it. I would never do that to her. I'm better than a son. I've helped her for years, and I gave her something Phil couldn't. I gave her the secret.”

“The secret?” His dad's secret?

He half frowned. “I didn't know I had it or I would have told her sooner. But she understood. I was just a kid. When my dad told me, I didn't know what it meant. And when he died, people hounded my mom about it, but they never asked me.”

“How old were you?” Nell asked. Seemed like keeping him talking was a good plan until she figured out a better one. “When your dad told you the secret.”

“I was twelve.”

“And she…helped you?”

“She gave me a job when I left—when I turned eighteen.”

She didn't help him a whole lot. More like she helped herself to useful tool, one with mama and papa issues.

“But you didn't tell her the secret until recently.” Zach had said the feds thought Dunstead had the dirt on all three men. Could he really have told his twelve year old son where it was?

“He told me not to tell.”

“And the—Mrs. St. Cyr never asked you about it?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “She did a couple of times, but I didn't know, I didn't realize she was okay.”

That must have pissed grandma off. All those years and he had it. Dunstead didn't know it, but grandma would make him pay for that—when she didn't need him anymore.

“She told me about how she and my dad were supposed to be partners, but the old man told Phil to take him out. So I then knew it was okay, that she was the one I needed to tell. When we get the proof, I'll be her right hand man and we'll run it all together.”

How would the proof that her dead dad had killed his dad thirty years ago help them “get it all?” And why would Phil have kept information that incriminated him? It made no sense. But if it incriminated grandma—had her Dad known? Had he been kinder to his mother than she'd been to him? Or—had he known that to use it was to let her know he wasn't dead? Had he protected his family by keeping her secret, but kept whatever it was because he could never be completely sure his mama wouldn't find him?

“I'll need the ring, too.” He half smiled. “I saw the old man slip into your case. I was watching it all go down. For her. I set it all up for her, and she asked me to be her eyes and ears for the hit.”

Poor Phil. Poor Dad. And poor me, stuck in a laundry room with a crazy guy and a black widow outside waiting for this tool to deliver her the goods. “Does…she know I have the ring?”

“I wanted to surprise her with it. She thinks the cops have it.” His smile turned down. “Binx was supposed to get it after he popped the old man. He claimed he did get it but wanted more money, so he pretended he'd hand it over. He shouldn't have lied.”