With Good Behavior (39 page)

“You stay right where you are, bitch,” Carlo said, taking the gun off of Grant for a split second before returning the muzzle to his temple. “Nobody is going anywhere.”

The phone rang incessantly, fraying Carlo’s nerves. Kirsten inched forward on the sofa. “I’ll just stop it from ringing,” she negotiated, training her gaze on the unpredictable murderer in her living room.

“Don’t you fucking move one inch!” Carlo yelled.

“It will be fine,” Kirsten snapped back, feeling on edge herself. “You can watch me the whole time.” She was now perched on the edge of the sofa and exchanged a glance with Grant. Kirsten quietly got to her feet, taking tiny steps toward the table.

A realization hit Grant: Carlo was going to shoot Kirsten. He’d already shot Sophie! Why the hell was Grant allowing the love of his life to bleed out on the sofa? What the hell was he doing on his knees, succumbing to his cousin—capitulating to Lo’s 
murderer
?Logan was not here to protect Grant from a menacing Barberi man like he always had. Grant had to step up and be the protector now. Carlo had taken his father and brother from him. He simply was not going to allow him to steal Sophie too.

“Goddamn it!” Carlo yanked the gun off Grant and pointed it toward Kirsten. “I told you not to move!”

With one graceful move, Grant leapt to his feet and lunged for Carlo, taking him by surprise. His left hand fumbled for the gun in Carlo’s grasp, and his right hand groped for the skin above Carlo’s left elbow, where Grant knew there was scar tissue from the gunshot wound his cousin had sustained twenty-two years ago. Carlo yelped in pain, giving Grant a sliver of satisfaction, before twisting his right wrist away in an attempt to regain control of the handgun.

Fiercely digging his fingers into the scar tissue again, Grant felt Carlo give way—leaning to his left to shy away from the painful grip—and suddenly they were on the floor, fighting and clawing for control of the gun.

“Son of a bitch!” Carlo hissed breathlessly as they tussled on the floor.

Sophie’s face drained of color as her throbbing wound continued to bleed, and Kirsten could only stand by, frozen, watching the battle play out in front of her.

Grant had both hands on the gun now as he attempted to wrestle it away from Carlo, and he could feel the shorter man weakening under him. The wrath of avenging his brother’s death and Sophie’s injury had infused Grant with strength. He might not have the ruthlessness or cunning of his cousin, but he certainly had the determination.

Now crouched above Carlo’s prone body, Grant sensed he had the upper hand. He forced the gun down between their chests, away from Sophie, and his long fingers wormed their way to the trigger. Watching panic creep into his cousin’s eyes, Grant felt Carlo’s hand wriggle and grope for the gun. Suddenly the weapon discharged, sending a second deafening roar through the apartment.

His ears ringing and his body thrumming, Grant’s eyes widened as he slowly peeled himself off of Carlo and saw a red stain on the white shirt beneath his White Sox jacket. Was he hit? Then his eyes found the deep crimson stain on Carlo’s chest, from which leached thick blood, spreading quickly.

Oh my God, 
Grant silently repeated, sitting back on his heels. 
I shot him. I killed a man. 
He shoved the gun, sending it sliding across the carpet.

Carlo gasped for air, each breath like a knife twisting in his lungs. Was this how Logan had felt after he’d stabbed him? He clutched the carpet, feeling searing pain rip through his chest, though his lower body was already numb. Black spots crowded his vision, and he called out shakily, “Grant?”

Grant crawled forward, and Carlo saw a pair of frightened eyes peer down at him. “Tell my father—tell him I loved him,” Carlo wheezed. “Even though he didn’t …” Carlo’s eyes glazed over, and all he could see was blackness. Determined to finish his sentence, he panted, “Even though he didn’t love me. He only loved 
Logan.
”Carlo’s last word came out in a sneer.

Grant winced, hearing his cousin’s dying words. “Why, Carlo? Why’d you have to kill Lo?”

Carlo stared back with unseeing eyes. His body shuddered and somehow he found the energy to draw his mouth into his characteristic smirk. “It was you. Logan died trying to protect you.”

Stunned, Grant pulled back and sat up. Hearing Kirsten’s voice, he looked up to see her on the phone and gathered she was talking to emergency services. He then looked across the coffee table to his love, whose pale skin and pained expression brought a stab of guilt.

Carlo’s moan drew Grant’s attention back to him. Grant hovered over his cousin, flooded by conflicting emotions—the most palpable being relief that Carlo could no longer hurt Sophie. He thought about putting pressure on his horrific chest wound, but Grant knew there was no hope for his cousin.

“I’m sorry,” Carlo whispered. Seconds later, Grant watched the light fade from his black eyes, and he realized he was gone. Another Barberi man had died.

I shot him. I killed a man. 
Grant knew he would return to prison now. His short-lived parole was a thing of the past.

Drawing a trembling hand toward his cousin’s face, Grant brushed his fingertips over the eyelids, closing the lifeless black eyes. “I’m sorry my father ruined your life,” he whispered back, feeling the sudden urge to cry.

Sophie. He longed to wrap her in his arms and keep her safe until the paramedics arrived. But she’d rejected him after learning about his family, and now she was possibly dying from a wound inflicted by that very family. How could he even look her in the eye?

She felt his longing look and said softly, “Grant? Please bring me my purse.”

He was up like a shot and returned to the sofa instantly, handing her the bag as he sat on the low armrest. “Thank you,” she whispered. Her eyelids drooped, and she just wanted to fall asleep, but she forced herself to rummage through her bag until she located her cell phone. Gingerly holding her left arm motionless, she searched in her purse once again.

“Can I help you with that, Sophie?” Grant asked, feeling useless. Gazing worriedly at her bleeding arm, he could no longer prevent himself from taking action. He reached down and unbuckled his belt.

“This is something 
I
 need to do,” she said. She 
had
 to make this phone call. Finally locating the business card, Sophie flipped open the cell phone and painstakingly dialed the emergency number listed on the card.

“Yes, hello?” She spoke weakly. “I need to get an emergency message to Officer Jerry Stone.”

Sliding the belt out of his pant loops, Grant listened to her end of the conversation.

“This is Sophie Taylor. Please tell him Grant Madsen had to shoot a man in self-defense tonight. We need his help.”

“Sophie—” Grant objected, but she shushed him and resumed her conversation.

“Yes, thank you.”

Ending the call, she looked at him with glassy eyes and a small smile. “I can’t have my McSailor return to prison now, can I?”

“It’s where I belong, Soph—”

“Please,” she interrupted. “Please hold me, Grant. I’m so cold.”

“First we have to stop the bleeding.” He slid next to her and looped the belt around her bicep, tightening the tourniquet as she winced in pain. “Sorry.”

He then wrapped his arms around her carefully. Closing his eyes as he felt the familiar comfort of her melting into him, he murmured, “I’m so sorry, Sophie.” They held each other for several moments, and then he looked at his watch. “Where are those damn paramedics?”

Silent tears slid down her cheeks as she wondered if she’d ever get to experience this pleasure again. She had no energy left. “I missed this,” she murmured. “You smell so … good.” Her last word was barely a whisper.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said. “I brought danger to you and Kirsten tonight, and—” He glanced at Carlo’s lifeless form, “I just killed a man. I 
am
 Grant Barberi.”

Every fiber of her being wished to protest his words, but instead she slipped into a deep, peaceful blackness.

A
throbbing ache formed in his shoulders and radiated down the length of his arms, culminating in a tingling numbness in his manacled hands. Grant had been sitting in the apartment with his wrists cuffed behind his back for over an hour now.

His mind flashed repeatedly to the horror of feeling Sophie slump against him as he’d held her …

Realizing she was unconscious, Grant had shouted at Kirsten to tell them to hurry. Her voice rose with fear as she continued speaking to the 911 dispatcher. Fortunately, a banging on the door immediately followed his plea, and Kirsten let in two police officers.

One officer knelt by the handgun, carefully placing the weapon in an evidence bag, while the other moved toward the couple on the sofa. He was a barrel-chested, balding man with a fleshy face and beady black eyes, and over Sophie’s shoulder Grant read the name on his uniform tunic: Dirkson.

“Get away from her,” Officer Dirkson ordered.

Nodding, Grant fully intended to comply but found he could not let go of Sophie. This might be the last time he would ever hold her. He simply couldn’t detach himself.

“I said,” the officer snarled as he stepped forward and rested his right hand on the gun in his holster, “get away from her.”

Grant could not believe he was disobeying an officer of the law. “Not until the paramedics arrive, sir.”

“Hey, idiot!” yelled the other officer, now standing near Kirsten. “We won’t let the paramedics in here until we subdue you. Let go of her!”

Grant immediately released Sophie, resting her gently on the sofa cushions. Quickly Dirkson was on top of him, shoving him off the sofa and onto the floor, burying his face in the carpet.

Turning to stare at Carlo’s peaceful profile, Grant felt his arms wrenched behind him and the painfully familiar cool-metal sensation of handcuffs closing on his wrists.

“You’re the shooter, right?” Dirkson growled, clasping the cuffs tightly.

Grant closed his eyes, wishing to erase the vision of Carlo’s dead body. “Yes, sir,” he quietly confessed.

“Stay down then and don’t move, asshole,” Dirkson replied, roughly frisking the length of his body.

Grant heard the bustle of paramedics arriving. He listened to Kirsten insisting she was fine and begging the paramedic to join her colleagues attending to Sophie.

He heard snippets of conversation between the EMTs: “Vitals 130 over 70, pulse 68, sat 90 percent, one medial entrance wound above the left elbow … Get some O2 and an IV for her on the rig … Damn, BP’s dropping. Let’s get moving.”

He badly wanted to raise his head to look, but the big black boot of Officer Dirkson, perched right next to his nose, convinced him to stay still.

As Sophie rattled out of the apartment on a stretcher, Kirsten followed closely. “I’ll stay with her, Grant,” she called as she left. “She’s going to be okay!”

Grant gulped. She had to be okay. He could never live with himself if he’d caused the death of his Bonnie …

The pulsating ache of rigid restraint filled his mind once again as he stole a glance at the two officers babysitting him. He could tell they were pissed off that they had to wait so long in the apartment—waiting for what, Grant wasn’t sure. But nothing compared to the pain of worry and regret piercing his heart. He had waited interminably to hear news of Sophie’s recovery, and he could bear it no longer.

“Please, sir, can you get an update on Sophie Taylor?” he asked.

The two Chicago PD officers, standing fifteen feet away, paused their conversation long enough to send him hostile glares. Grant immediately regretted opening his big mouth.

Officer Dirkson strode across the room and towered over Grant.

“You want to find out if you murdered two people, not just one?” he glowered.

Grant said nothing.

“Even if that little 
señorita 
makes it, which it don’t look so good for her, you’re still going away for life, con.”

The officer had searched Grant’s wallet and discovered his driver’s license with 
Registered Offender
 stamped on it. Grant being on parole did not exactly endear him to Officer Dirkson.

“I did not shoot her!” Grant insisted.

“Shut the fuck up, you murderer,” Dirkson sneered. He grinned wickedly before surprising Grant with a devastating punch to the midsection. Grant instantly doubled over, groaning from the blow.

“What’s going on here?” an irate voice demanded from the entryway. Through his pain, Grant located Detective Marilyn Fox standing with her hands on her hips, glaring at Officer Dirkson. Accompanying her was a man dressed in a business suit. “Why are you assaulting my suspect?”

“Who the hell are you?” Dirkson retorted, eyeing the petite woman suspiciously. “This is a crime scene. You can’t just walk in here—”

“Detective Marilyn Fox, Great Lakes PD,” she brusquely informed him, whipping out her badge.

“I’m Detective Bruce Hammond, Chicago PD,” the fortyish, brown-haired man added, also showing his badge. “And 
anyone
 could walk in here, you dipshit. Where’s the crime scene tape on the door?”

“You’re the detectives?” Dirkson avoided looking at Bruce and aimed his comments at Marilyn. “We were ordered to wait for 
you,
 sweet cheeks. What took you so damn long? Did you stop for a manicure on the way?”

Marilyn’s green eyes narrowed, then focused on his nametag. “Officer Dirkson, did you listen to one word I just said? I was coming from 
Lake County.
” She enunciated the words carefully, as if explaining a concept to a child. “Detective Hammond was gracious enough to wait for me—naturally it took awhile to get here.”

“Yeah.” Dirkson grinned. “They probably couldn’t sacrifice their 
only
 detective for the whole day, huh? Let’s hope no crimes are committed in Disturbia while you’re downtown, darlin’. Your superior might not like that.”

Detective Hammond watched the exchange, a look of amusement on his face.

“Speaking of superiors, what’s your sergeant’s name, Officer?” Marilyn asked calmly.

“Why do you care?” Dirkson countered.

She smiled sweetly. “Because I’d like to report your misconduct to your supervisor, once I’m done here.”

Dirkson’s grin quickly faded. “Now wait a minute, Detective—”

“You touch my suspect one more time, and I’ll have Internal Affairs all over your sizeable ass,” Marilyn leaned in and whispered, causing Grant to miss the end of the conversation.

There was a clanging in the hallway, and Marilyn backed off, turning to smile at the forensic techs. “Come on in, guys,” she said. Turning back around, she maintained her congenial expression as she told Dirkson, “I suggest you join your partner over there and get out of our way, Officer.”

Dirkson silently followed her command.

Bruce had agreed that Marilyn would be the first to interrogate Grant, since she’d already questioned him once. He efficiently took charge of the crime scene as she turned her attention to the suspect on the couch. “How are you holding up, Mr. Madsen?”

“I’m fine, ma’am. Please, do you know how Sophie is doing?”

“When Officer Stone called me, he said he was going to try to track down which hospital she was taken to. I’m sure he’ll let me know once he finds out anything.”

Grant nodded, though her answer had not smoothed the lines of worry on his face at all. His heart remained crushed by guilt. He had done this.

A tech joined Bruce in pulling on latex gloves before stooping down to examine Carlo’s body. Cocking his head toward Carlo, Grant resolutely informed her, “I shot him. I killed my cousin.”

She blinked several times before extracting her notebook from her jacket pocket. The air was heavy between them as she jotted down his quote. “His name is Carlo Barberi?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Mr. Madsen, I need to ask you some questions.” Even though he was a parolee, she read him his Miranda rights, just to be clear. Then with a nod from Grant, she began her questioning.

“Why did you shoot him?”

Grant shifted uncomfortably, trying to ignore his throbbing shoulders. “He shot Sophie, and he was going to kill us all—”

“Wait a minute. Back up. Why did Mr. Barberi shoot Ms. Taylor?”

Drawing a deep breath, Grant launched into the story. “Carlo found out about the money Sophie had turned over to the police, and he came here, demanding that she get it for him. By the time I arrived, he already had the gun on Sophie and Kirsten.”

“This is Kirsten’s apartment?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How did you know Mr. Barberi would be here?”

“Because Carlo came to see me first,” Grant said. “Sophie had left a note with her address on my fridge, and after Carlo took off I realized he’d stolen the note. I got here as fast as I could, but I was … too late.”

“This the note?” the tech called out. He held up piece of paper he’d removed from Carlo’s pants pocket, and Grant immediately recognized Sophie’s flowing scrawl.

Bruce’s gloved hands took the note from the tech and read it. “Who’s Bonnie?” he asked.

Although he’d just admitted to killing another human being, Grant looked endearingly cute as he blushed. “Private joke, sir?”

Marilyn nodded. Getting back to business, she looked down at her notebook as the forensic tech bagged the note and resumed his duties. “Mr. Barberi had the gun trained on the two women?” Marilyn prompted.

“Yes,” Grant said. “He ordered me to join them on the sofa, but I refused. I was just trying to get him out of here, away from Sophie, but he wouldn’t leave.”

“He had a gun on you, and you didn’t do what he said?” Marilyn asked.

“Yes, ma’am.” He shrugged, wincing in pain as he moved his sore shoulders. “He had the gun on me at my apartment too. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Why did he threaten you in your apartment?”

Grant paused, wondering if he should share that he’d agreed to join his Mafia family.

“Mr. Madsen?” Marilyn urged.

Sighing, Grant admitted, “Carlo threatened to kill Sophie unless I started working for the family.”

Marilyn arched her eyebrows, and a hint of sarcasm crept in her voice. “Let me guess. You agreed to do it and didn’t even think of calling the police.”

“How could I call the police when I had to race over here?”

“You never would have called them. Let’s face it, Mr. Madsen.”

“Don’t you understand how my family works, Detective? You can’t go against them, no matter how hard you try, and I’ve been trying all my life. Believe me. You can’t go to the cops—nobody can keep you safe. Hell, my father would have killed the man who was informing on him if not for Carlo messing it all up.”

“But the informant lived, and your father got caught.”

In the last few days Grant had not thought once about his father, holed away in prison for the rest of his life. How would Enzo react to all that had happened? How would his father treat him when they reunited at Gurnee?

“The good guys won that time,” Marilyn continued. “I suppose we should thank Carlo here for that one.”

Grant glanced furtively at the pallid body surrounded by busy techs. He would 
never 
feel thankful toward Carlo.

Bruce stood with his arms crossed in front of him, supervising both the collection of evidence and the interrogation.

“So.” Marilyn resumed her questioning. “What happened when you refused to join Sophie and Kirsten on the sofa?”

“Carlo was counting down before he put a bullet in my head, and that’s when Sophie …” Grant’s voice faded. He had not allowed himself to consider Carlo’s confession since it occurred—it was too overwhelming to acknowledge that his own cousin had killed his brother. It was unfathomable.

“What did Sophie do?”

“Sophie …” He trailed off again, feeling hot tears in his eyes. He didn’t want the detective to see him crying 
again
. “Sophie—I don’t know how she figured it out, but she knew.” His voice thick with tears, he leaned forward. “And once she said it, I knew too.”

“You knew 
what
?”

As much as his restrained arms would allow, Grant’s head sunk lower and lower. His tears were flowing freely now, just as they had that afternoon at Logan’s funeral. “Carlo killed Logan,” he said. “He killed my brother.”

Marilyn sat completely still, running through various scenarios in her mind.

Grant rocked as he sobbed, refusing to look up, and Marilyn eyed him sympathetically.

“Carlo murdered Lo,” he bawled. “I know y-y-you don’t believe me, but he was the k-k-killer. He did it.” He sniffed and took a shuddering breath. “And he said … he said that Lo died t-t-trying to protect me. Lo wouldn’t give me up.”

Marilyn took a deep breath, watching the parolee writhe in pain before her. She stood up and conferred with Bruce for a moment before approaching the two police officers.

“Madsen’s in the mob?” Dirkson quietly asked.