Authors: Nancy Martin
“Don’t mind Rooney,” she said. “He’s just a pup.”
The animal had a basso profundo growl and a thick, quivering strand of drool that hung from his lower lip. Spikes studded the heavy collar around his thick neck.
Roxy climbed into the driver’s seat and with a smack on the dog’s haunches sent him into the backseat. “Get in,” she said to Henry. “He’ll definitely shed on you, but he probably won’t bite.”
Henry eased onto the passenger seat. “Is this a dog or a rhinoceros?”
“Don’t worry. You won’t be getting to know him well.” She started the car and pulled away from the hydrant with neck-snapping acceleration. She turned down an alley and left the busy commercial street behind. The dog, meanwhile, panted at the back of Henry’s neck. The radio blasted an old rock song, and she sang a couple of bars—her voice low and full and sexy with vibrato.
She cut the radio and said, “What’s your name again?”
“Henry Paxton.” He handed over one of his ivory vellum business cards. “Attorney-at-law.”
She tossed the card onto the Mustang’s console without glancing at it. “And what do you want with me?”
“Straight to the point. I like that in a woman. I found your name on the list of contractors who helped dismantle the Hyde mansion. You deal in architectural salvage.”
“Where’d you get the list? You work for the city?”
“Monica Hyde was helpful.”
She glanced across at him. “You working for her?”
“Why so worried about who I work for?”
“What do you think I am, an idiot? A lawyer doesn’t come looking for me to hand over a lottery check.”
Despite her rough talk, she had a Cleopatra profile—a prominent nose counterpointed by a femininely sharp chin and a full mouth. He guessed her age to be early thirties, but it was hard to be sure. On the steering wheel, her hands were strong—short nails not exactly clean. She wasn’t skinny, but lean like one of those Olympic volleyball players who stripped down to a bikini to crush the competition.
She said, “I’m a 36C, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“Good to know if I need to buy you lingerie.”
“You buy your wife a lot of lingerie?”
“No wife. Not at the moment, anyway.”
She took a corner very fast and beat another car into the line of traffic, then touched the brake and glanced at him. “You almost look like a nice guy from the suburbs, Paxton—big house, two kids and a dog. But something’s not quite right.”
“You don’t like my tie?”
“That’s not it. You doing Monica?”
He replied, composed, “Monica is considerably older than I am.”
“And she was Julius Hyde’s wife. Well, you look smart enough not to shit where you eat. So tell me what you’re after, Counselor. You want I should go looking for some oak flooring for your snazzy office? Or maybe a nice stained-glass window for a Hyde mausoleum?”
Henry decided he should be careful not to show too many of his cards to this one, or she’d clean him out. “I’m trying to track down valuable items that disappeared from the Hyde house. Some of the family members have sentimental attachments, and now that Julius is dead, they’d like—well, mementos, you could say. I’m willing to pay for their return.”
“Things that disappeared? You mean stolen.”
“Things that have gone missing.”
“You calling me a crook?”
“No, no. I’m willing to buy back items that the family let go.”
“Like what?”
“The Hydes are known for their collection of art. Porcelain. Fine glass. Objets d’art.”
“Objets what?” she mocked. “That’s not what I deal in, Paxton. I buy and sell the heavy stuff—things that need to be hauled in a truck, not packed in tissue paper. You need an antique picker, not me. Those guys are the ones with dirty hands.”
“We’re afraid some of the larger objects in the collection may have gone missing, too.”
“Gone missing, huh? Nice euphemism.” She wagged her head. “I see this kind of thing in families all the time. The older generation decides to pay for their prescriptions by selling the farm when the rest of the family isn’t looking. Or they send their junk to the Salvation Army at tax time for a big tax deduction? They think they’re doing the world a big favor by dumping their broken lamps on the loading dock of some charity.”
Amused, Henry said, “You Pittsburghers are all alike.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You all have the same chip on your shoulder. The attitude that the whole world’s against you.”
“Fuck you. Want to know what usually happens? They take the tax deduction, then call the insurance company and say Grandma’s silver teapot got stolen. They get an insurance payoff, and the police come around my neighborhood looking for somebody who stole an ugly teapot, which is now taking up shelf space at the Goodwill store. You think I’m wrong?”
“I think you’re a reverse bigot, as a matter of fact.”
She made a crude suggestion, then drove through a yellow light, hung a right, and a moment later crossed traffic and pulled through a set of imposing wrought-iron gates. A cemetery. Elegant headstones appeared on either side of the car. Some of them decorated with flags, some with plastic flowers. One grave site sported a black and yellow bow with trailing ribbons.
She pulled over, braked, and threw the transmission into park.
Henry cleared his throat. “Sorry. I think we’re getting off on the wrong foot here, Miss Abruzzo.”
“Damn straight we did.”
“You have no earthly reason to trust me.”
Roxy Abruzzo turned in her seat and said, “You mean, why should I trust a guy who dresses like an FBI agent? And talks like he just fell off the HMS
Pinafore
?”
“A Gilbert and Sullivan aficionado. Now that’s a surprise.”
“Save the patronizing routine, will you, Paxton? I’m a busy woman.” Her dog emphasized her point by sticking his head between the seats, shoving his wet muzzle into Henry’s arm, and growling ominously.
Thinking the dog might snap his arm like a matchstick, Henry hastened to the gist of the matter. “I’d like to buy any pieces Julius Hyde or someone else might have given or sold to you. Price is no hindrance.”
“No hindrance?” She laughed. “You must think I have something really valuable.”
“Do you?”
“I have some spindles from the stairs and a big fireplace with griffins. Is that what you want? The fireplace?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Her eyes flickered with intelligence. Had he made an error in judgment? Was asking to buy the sculpture of Achilles a tactical blunder? He wondered if she might already be two steps ahead of him.
He tried another tack. “Perhaps you know some of the other dealers Julius might have spoken with. Is there someone else I should approach?”
“Dealers?” She grinned coldly. “Or do you mean fences?”
“Are you always this defensive?”
“When somebody insults me, yes. Next thing that’s going to happen is you saying maybe I killed Julius while I was hanging around his house.”
“Did you?”
“See what I mean?” She had a harsh laugh.
“Miss Abruzzo—”
Her phone rang, interrupting Henry. She arched her lovely hips off the seat to wrestle the cell phone out of her jeans. She flipped it open. “Yeah?”
A voice squawked on the other end of the line.
“I’m coming. I got sidetracked.”
The other voice again.
“I ordered a pizza, but something happened.” She glanced at Henry. “No, nothing like that. Give me ten minutes.”
Her caller hung up.
Henry said, “Problem?”
“You ask a lot of questions and don’t give many answers.” She slid her phone back into her jeans. “I’ve got places to be, Paxton.”
“So do I. But maybe we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“You’re looking for stolen goods,” she said. “I’ve got a fireplace to unload, but that’s it. If you want anything else, I suggest you keep going down that list of yours. Unless you’ve got something different in mind?”
Her direct gaze challenged Henry, and this time he felt sure she was measuring him.
He’d never met a woman with her particular brand of sex appeal—blunt, yes. Putting the possibility right out in the open. But simultaneously daring him to make the first move and warning what short work she could make of him. The
SEXY BABY
plate on the front of the car was half true. She was plenty sexy, but there was nothing babyish in her manner. No childishness in her frank gaze. No nonsense in her tone. As if communicating that sex with her would be an entirely different experience from anything else he’d ever known.
He found himself saying, “It’s a shame we didn’t meet under difference circumstances, Miss Abruzzo.”
“Circumstances,” she said, “can be changed.”
What happened next didn’t make sense.
Four big thuds hit the car, and then they heard four short cracks of noise from somewhere among the cemetery monuments.
Roxy ducked, cursing. Then, “Get down!”
“What’s—?”
She grabbed the back of his head and jammed his face into the solid muscle of her thigh. “Damn,” she said. One-handed, she put the car in gear and peeled out so fast the dog tumbled onto his back.
When she put both her hands on the steering wheel, Henry was freed enough to struggle upright. “What was that?” He grabbed the door handle as the car whipped around a curve and Roxy accelerated toward the gate.
“Somebody just took a shot at us!”
“A shot?”
“Four bullets, didn’t you hear them?”
By that time, Roxy was driving like a NASCAR champion. “Whoever it was can’t shoot for shit,” she was saying in a voice laced with adrenaline. “This car is going to need some serious body work. I didn’t see anybody. Did you? Serves me right, too. Losing my concentration.”
“You get shot at frequently?”
“Who says I was the target?” She braked for a light, but checked the rearview mirror. A spot of high color showed on her cheekbone. “Maybe you’re the one with the bull’s-eye on his back. You work for the Hydes, right?”
“I sincerely doubt anybody’s trying to—”
“What, you’re too classy? Okay, smart guy, tell me why somebody would kill a nice fellow like Julius Hyde.”
“Class has nothing to— Look, I’ve too been busy taking care of family matters in the wake of his death to concern myself with—”
“Maybe you ought to start concerning yourself, Counselor. I get the feeling whoever offed Julius has some loose ends to take care of.”
“Should we call the police?”
“Should we?” She laughed shortly, taunting him. “You’re an officer of the court, right? Somebody just shot up the car we were sitting in.”
“Right. We should call 911.”
“So why haven’t you done it yet?”
The light changed, and she drove forward.
Henry was still working on an answer when she pulled up in front of the pizza shop where he’d found her in the first place. She threw the car in neutral and turned sideways in the seat to look at him. “Nice meeting you, Counselor. But this is the end of the road for you and me.”
“That’s it? We’re done?”
“Well done,” she said. “Cooked before we even got started. Which is a shame. You’re kinda cute.”
“Look,” he began.
She put up one hand as if stopping traffic. “I don’t think so, Henry. You’ve got something going on that I want absolutely nothing to do with. Understand?”
“But—”
“Don’t make me kick your ass,” she said. “Sayonara.”
Henry had no doubt she could give his ass a good kicking. He got out of the car.
She leaned across the seat to look at him. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Counselor, but here’s a piece of advice. You come to this neighborhood? Bring your A-game.”
He stood on the corner while she drove away. When she disappeared into traffic, he got into his own car and checked his reflection in the mirror. He was disconcerted to discover his face looking pale.
His phone rang, and Henry checked the screen. The number was Monica’s. Probably asking if he’d found her damned dog yet. He decided not to answer.
Putting his phone away, he discovered his wallet was missing. And rain started to spatter his windshield.
9
Nooch phoned to tell Roxy the shopping trip hadn’t happened. Kaylee had refused to set foot inside the Mr. Husky store.
Roxy cut across his explanation and told him she needed a pizza, fast. Ten minutes later, she drove into the salvage yard, where he was standing beside the truck in a gray drizzle. Driving the nimble little Mustang seemed like a good idea for the moment, despite the bullet holes, so Roxy leaned over and opened the passenger door. He barely squeezed into the front seat beside her.
“Where’s Kaylee?”
“At your house. She needed a nap before she could face taking me to the mall.” Nooch rubbed the rain from his hair. “I think she could use one. She’s scary when she’s mad, but I like it even less when girls cry.”
“She’ll get over it. If she’s lucky, another old rich dude will start looking for her kind of manicures. She tell you anything interesting?”
“Huh?”
“About that building she mentioned?”
“What building?”
“The one Julius gave her.”
“Why’d he give her a building?”
No sense beating his brain. Nooch had a hard time remembering what he ate for breakfast.
“How mad does Kaylee get?” she asked instead. “Sounds like she’s been arrested a couple of times for losing her temper.”
“She can get pretty ticked off. At the last family reunion, she threw potato salad at Uncle Stosh. I thought he was gonna shove her head in the kiddie pool and hold her down till she drownded, but she got away. She keeps going to anger-management classes, but it never seems to take.”
Uncle Stosh had a legendary temper, too. “Think she could get mad enough to shoot her boyfriend?”
The idea scandalized Nooch. “Kaylee? She’s just a girl! She couldn’t hurt nobody!”
Roxy wanted to say that girls hurt people all the time, but Nooch had already staked out his position on the subject.
“Did you call for the pizza?”
“I forgot.”
Roxy tossed him her cell phone, and he dialed.
Under a steadily lowering October sky, Roxy headed uphill through the Lawrenceville neighborhood, a mix of empty nests, college students looking for cheap rents, some budding artists, and a few junkies—young and old. While she drove, she thought about being somebody’s target practice. Had the shooter been aiming for her? Or Kaylee’s car? Or the Hyde family lawyer? The chances of it being a random shooting, she decided, were nil.