She arched one eyebrow and regarded Cassidy. “He seems to have an eye for you. That’s opportunity knocking in my book. You said you saw him this weekend. Where? I just spilled my guts, Cass, you gotta share.”
Cassidy pushed her glasses up her nose. “Well, since we’re sharing secrets, I’d rather no one here knows, but he moved me out of Fortieth Street.”
“Good for him,” Amber interrupted, pumping her fist in the air. “You didn’t belong there. Where’d he move you to?”
“Into a building he owns. In return for rent I’m doing odd jobs, running errands, and helping maintain the place.”
“That sounds like a fair deal.”
“It’s more than fair. The apartment I’m in is beautiful,” she said, falling silent.
“And?” Amber swung her feet out and back from the side of the table. “There’s gotta be more. Why did I have to get a message to him last week?”
She recounted the ride to the store with Clay and repeated Rosie’s comments. “I didn’t want her to see him picking me up.”
Amber nodded. “That was a good move on your part. I knew you were a smart cookie. So why does working for C.C. and living in the same building as him make you blush like a virgin and have you so concerned about my relationship with him?”
Cassidy studied the well-worn path in the carpet between the front counter and the backroom, avoiding Amber’s inquisitive stare. “We sort of had a date Saturday night. Nothing fancy, but it felt like it might be, I mean, maybe it could turn into something more. We, um, if you and he … ”
Amber straightened her back, planted both fists on her hips, and laughed out loud. “Well, now the tables are turned. I’m curious as hell if you slept with him, but I’m not going to ask because either you’ve suffered heat stroke under these fluorescent lights or you’re reliving the whoopee and enjoying it as much as the first time around.” Her head bobbed again. “I can see the two of you together. It’s a nice fit so I say good for you, girlfriend. He’s quite a catch and probably just what you need.”
Cassidy stared at Amber. “Why do you say that?”
“I’ve told you before, I think you’re hiding something or running from something or in trouble. Whatever it is, C.C. is a good man to help you resolve it.”
The door chimed and she winked. “I do hope someday you tell me how he looks naked. I could live on that vision forever.”
A tall woman with long brown hair stood waiting at the counter. She exuded cold, like a walking ice sculpture, zeroing in on Cassidy. Instinctively, Cassidy took a step back.
“How can I help you?” Amber asked.
The woman disregarded Amber and, instead, spit words at Cassidy.
“Stay away from my husband. Understand?”
Cassidy’s knees buckled and she grabbed the back counter for support.
Amber stepped into her line of vision, shielding Cassidy from that arctic glare. “And you are?”
The woman focused icy globes on Amber. “I’m not talking to you.” She moved to her left to once again glower at Cassidy.
But Amber wouldn’t be bested and she stepped to her right and into the woman’s line of sight again. “I’m talking to you,” she hissed, emphasizing the first and last words. “Unless you have something to ship or wish to purchase office supplies, I don’t think you have any business here.”
Robotically, the woman refocused on Amber. “This doesn’t concern you, honey.”
Amber folder her arms in front of her and tilted her head in a side-to-side motion. “I’ve decided it does concern me, honey. Who the hell are you anyway?”
The woman’s lips puckered together as if she’d eaten a lemon. “Lauren Cestra.”
Amber put her hands on her hips. “Well. Listen, Lauren Cestra. Either buy something or get out before I call the police. That would be Officer Clay Cestra, I believe. Know him?”
That appeared to startle Lauren. Her jaw dropped open and she took one step back from the counter.
The door chimed and a man entered carrying a small box to ship. Amber pointed to the door and spoke low and slow. “Out. Now. Or I call.”
Lauren leaned to catch Cassidy’s attention. “This isn’t over.” She turned, strutting out on three-inch heels and swinging her long hair behind her.
As soon as the store was empty Amber turned to Cassidy. “What was that all about?”
“I’m not sure. Clay told me he wasn’t married.”
“Well somebody forgot to tell the ice queen. Are you going to tell Clay about her?”
“Sure. Don’t you think I should?”
Amber shrugged. “What do you think?”
“She has no right to come in here and tell me what to do or who to see. And Clay said they are divorced so she has no right to him either.”
“You go girl, stake your claim.”
• • •
Lauren was undaunted. If there was one thing she learned from her six-month stint in the county jail, it was how to get what she wanted. More often than not, all it took was money, and she definitely had more than those two little snots in that shipping store.
Her purpose had been to read the riot act to the little whore sleeping with Clay. Despite the other twit’s interference, she had at least put her on notice to stay away. If Clay Cestra thought he could discard her like last year’s sweater, he’d better think again. That damn court order may force her to avoid contact with him, but it didn’t address interaction with his play things. Up until now, his relationships with other women had been flirtatious and frivolous. But his affair with Miss Cassidy Hoake was escalating like a runaway train, and she was determined to derail it.
As distasteful as it was, she returned to the county jail for a visit with her former cellmate, Barbie Trumbolli. Barbie had at least one more year of her sentence to serve and because of her bully tendencies, which she flaunted rather than suppressed, she wasn’t getting out early for good behavior, like Lauren did. A smile creased Lauren’s face. She had been the perfect prisoner. Well, at least the prison officials said so.
Sitting in the dingy visiting area waiting for Barbie, she cringed. The room needed scrubbed from ceiling to baseboard. A healthy dose of disinfectant wouldn’t hurt.
She’d been assigned to share Barbie’s cell and their first meeting turned into one hell of a catfight, with her clawing at Barbie’s face and screaming threats she couldn’t remotely back up. Pure adrenaline fortified her to stand toe to toe with Barbie, refusing to back down from the verbal assaults and the shove against the wall.
She’d shoved back and then advanced on Barbie, breathing hard, staring eye to eye for the longest minute of her life, and snarled, “I’m not your bitch.”
The end result: she’d earned Barbie’s respect. Barbie smiled, winked, and said, “You’ll do. I don’t want some pansy sharing my space.”
That marked the beginning of their friendship and Lauren’s jail-survival education. She learned how a couple extra bucks could add a dessert to the meal trays, slip a bottle of nail polish into her pocket, and allow her to wear her own lingerie. Jail issue underwear was beyond horrendous. When she shared her wealth with Barbie, they became allies. Barbie offered protection from the other inmates, who resented Lauren’s perks. In return, Lauren deposited a sizeable amount in Barbie’s jail account when she was released.
Like Lauren, Barbie had faced attempted murder charges that were reduced to assault. Unlike Lauren, who was mortified to be confined, Barbie’s world revolved around organized crime, and violence seemed second nature. It was as if her stature within the family had risen because of her conviction and subsequent jail sentence.
Barbie beamed when she entered the visitor’s room and spied Lauren sitting at the table. “You clean up real good, Baby Sis.”
“How are you, Barbie? Still ruling the roost?”
“You bet your ass I am. I’m surprised to see you here. You miss me so much you voluntarily came back to this hellhole?”
She eyed the guard, turned back to Barbie, and winked. “I wanted to talk to you about a conversation we had a while back, about how I could get a good cup of coffee.”
Barbie cocked her head. “I thought you were a Starbucks girl.”
Lauren plastered a smile on her face. “What if I wanted to try something different, more robust? You know, a little darker and more dangerous.”
Barbie matched her grin. “How much darker?”
“I’m looking for a killer cup of coffee.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and laughed, wanting the guard to witness a simple, friendly reunion.
“Girl, it’s so good to see you,” Barbie responded, throwing her head back and laughing as well. “I know the perfect coffee shop. My cousin runs the place. He’ll help you with anything you want to order. Just ask for Mittens.”
Tony DelMorrie sucked on a cigarette, pinching his left eye closed to block the smoke drifting upward. He shifted in the front seat. His frame was too large to spend so much time slumped behind a steering wheel. Checking his watch he calculated it at nine hours. His stomach growled and he had to take a piss. Where the hell was she?
The tip he got from his cousin’s mistress had better pan out. Cassidy’s trail had gone cold more than a month ago in some small town in Tennessee. Christ, he’d hated that hole. But he hadn’t given up. No way. After his cousin called with the word that she was in Ohio, he’d driven all night.
He couldn’t have missed her, even if she was disguised. His view of her bedroom window was clear. There hadn’t been a light on in that apartment since he’d put eyes on it before the sun came up this morning. He’d searched it yesterday. She mighta been scared off finding it like that, but he still figured she’d come back to her own place before the start of a new work week. The little whore was probably shacked up with somebody.
He picked up the name tag between nicotine stained fingers and wiggled it, catching the light’s reflection. He’d waited this long. It was no time to get careless. He’d give it another day or two. If she didn’t show up, he’d find The Packing Place.
• • •
Clay rubbed his eyes. Hell. When he began an archive search for Cassidy’s name on
The Arizona Republic
website he never expected to find it linked to a murder and a mob guy. He stared at the photo of her surrounded by men in suits rushing her into a courthouse back door. Long, red hair floated behind her and, he noticed, no glasses.
“Eyewitness Cassidy Hoake is escorted by detectives into the courthouse under protective custody,” the photo caption read. He skimmed the story details. It all seemed in order. She’d witnessed the crime and testified.
He moved the cursor back to the search box and typed “Tony DelMorrie.” Clay was familiar with the name and the family’s underworld reputation. DelMorrie had carried on in his father’s footsteps, promoting prostitution and racketeering. Reportedly, DelMorrie personally “disposed of” family business problems, a deviation from the norm for mob bosses, but authorities had been unable to charge him with two murders they suspected he committed. He was too shrewd to get caught.
Apparently, he’d let his emotions get the better of him with his girlfriend. The paper said he and Jill Diamond had lived together for more than a year and had a major argument the morning Jill Diamond died. The story reported that DelMorrie gunned her down as she was entering a local convenience store. It was careless and impromptu and in front of a witness — not DelMorrie’s style. Police arrested him based on the testimony of the eyewitness, Cassidy Hoake.
Clay continued reading and there it was, the reason Cassidy was always looking around, constantly watching, forever evaluating her surroundings. DelMorrie had posted the million dollar cash bail designed to keep him in jail and skipped town. Why the hell had bail been approved on a murder charge for a man like DelMorrie, someone police suspected of other murders? That was unheard of. Granted, the high dollar amount would keep the average murderer behind bars, but not DelMorrie, not with his connections. Why had the prosecutor agreed to bail at all? It didn’t make sense, unless DelMorrie’s influence reached right into the prosecutor’s office or the judge’s chambers.
He read further. Arizona authorities were looking for him and Cassidy. She’d disappeared after her car exploded and police found her townhouse ransacked. There was some speculation about whether or not she was alive. A separate story included an interview with the presiding judge and his plea urging Cassidy to contact him and ensuring her safety. He didn’t seem to think she’d been harmed. The judge? That certainly was peculiar. Judges seldom gave interviews; they were supposed to remain impartial.
Another smaller article quoted the lead detective on the case. “We urge Ms. Hoake to take every precaution until we have detained Mr. DelMorrie.” Why wasn’t he urging her to turn herself in? Something wasn’t right. At the end of the article, the detective said he, too, feared Cassidy might be dead. Jesus.
“Jack’s finally asleep,” his sister said, coming up behind him. She placed her hands on his shoulders and peered at the computer screen. “Did you find anything?”
“Yeah, Mags. She’s in trouble. Big time.”
• • •
“You’re in trouble,” Leslie agreed. “Even if we order a new one on the sly, it won’t be here for at least four or five days. Tomorrow, he’ll be looking for the name tag.”
Amber struck a key on the keyboard as if it were the final note of a piano concerto. “There. It’s ordered and charged to the store account for luggage tags. Now, I have an idea.”
She removed her name tag and laid it under the copy machine cover. Once she had a color copy of the tag, she returned to the computer and typed Cassidy’s name in a matching font. Rising, she switched on the laminating machine.
“We can make this look like your badge. There is an old sweater in the backroom. If you wear that when the old man is here it will partially conceal it. Try not to let him get a good look at it. Stay at the counter waiting on people when he’s here. It should work. Don’t put it on until tomorrow though. He already knows you don’t have it today.”
The remainder of the day passed remarkably quickly. Although Amber clocked out at four, she waited a half hour until Cassidy was finished and offered her a lift home.