The Hitwoman and the Family Jewels (11 page)

Soft snoring greeted me from the settee of the parlor. I almost went back upstairs so that I wouldn’t disturb the slumber of my would-be protector, but then I caught a glimpse of red hair.

Tiptoeing into the room, I crept closer to see whether it really was Patrick sprawled out on the antique furniture.

He looked younger and more relaxed in repose. He hadn’t shaved recently and beard stubble covered his chin, blurring the lines around his mouth. A strand of hair fell across his forehead and my fingers itched to smooth it back in to place.

Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, I reached out to brush it off his skin. My fingers had barely made contact with the errant lock, when his eyes snapped open.

I froze as he caught my wrist in his hand.

He looked around the room the same way I had, to see if we were alone. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice husky with sleep.

“I-I don’t know,” I stammered as he stroked my pulse-point with his thumb sending a delicious shiver of sensation up my arm.

Without releasing me, he sat up in a smooth, fluid motion. He tugged gently on my wrist so that I sat beside him.

“W-what are you doing here?” I asked.

“Keeping you safe,” he murmured. He turned over my hand, studied my palm, and began tracing my lifeline with his thumb. “You didn’t think I’d leave you unprotected, did you?”

I couldn’t think of much at all with him touching me like that. “There were other officers here.”

“They’re still here. Last I checked they were playing poker in the kitchen.”

“So why are you here?” I asked.

“I was worried about you.” He raised my hand to his lips and placed a feather-light kiss on the inside of my wrist before he lifted his green gaze to meet mine.

My heart somersaulted happily, but then a self-preservation instinct kicked in and I yanked my hand free of his grasp. “Don’t you have a wife to worry about? Isn’t she going to wonder where you’ve been all night?”

He snorted his disbelief. “If
she
was ever home she might wonder.”

“What do you mean?” I’d been under the impression ever since I’d found out about his wife that she was a bedridden invalid.

“She’s off at some spa getting some
holistic
treatment,” he practically spat out.

“Holistic is bad?” I asked, confused.

“Holistic is code for a Girls’ Weekend,” he muttered, looking away.

I got the distinct impression that the words coming out of his mouth meant something completely different to me than they did to him. “Girls’ Weekends are unacceptable?”

He was silent for a long moment. “You did a good job alleviating Delveccio’s fears in the hospital yesterday.”

I blinked, feeling like I’d just experienced an even more severe bout of conversational whiplash than even my aunts were capable of. “What?”

“He would have gotten nervous with that marshal posted next door to his grandson’s room. It was smart to give him the heads up that they were looking for your father and not at him.”

“I understood that,” I said, a tad irritated. “I meant why did you change the subject so abruptly.”

“It’s complicated,” he muttered.

Before I could push him or he could elaborate, we heard a chair scuff across the kitchen floor. Patrick leapt up and was across the room before one of the officers I’d met the night before walked in.

“Morning,” the young man greeted me with a smile.

“Good morning. I was just telling Detective Mulligan that I’m going to work today,” I said in a rush.

“And I was just telling Miss Lee that I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Patrick replied in a voice tight with disapproval.

The smile on the younger cop’s face disappeared as he sensed the tension in the room.

“I’m not staying here. The witches will drive me crazy,” I insisted.

“Witches?” the cop asked sounding alarmed.

“My aunts,” I muttered, not about to explain that my escapee father had called them “the bitches” when I was growing up.

“No offense, lady,” the cop said, “but I’m pretty sure they could drive anyone crazy.” He’d had his own run-in with the meddling sisters the night before. It hadn’t been pretty.

“Fine,” Patrick agreed. “I’ll ask Griswald if you can go to work.”

“
Tell
him I’m going,” I ordered before stalking out of the room.

I don’t know what Patrick said to Marshal Griswald, but a few hours later I was escorted to Insuring the Future by the young cop, who assured me a squad car would be patrolling the area keeping an eye out for both my father and Paul Kowalski.

I hate my job answering phones and taking auto insurance claims, but I almost (almost) had a swing in my step as I approached my desk.

“Chiquita!” my best work friend, Armani Vasquez called the moment she saw me. She waved me over with her good hand. Her other hand, mangled in a run-in with a Zamboni, dangled at her side.

“Morning.” I plopped my butt onto the edge of her desk.

Standing, she threw her arms around me, yanked me to her, and squeezed tightly. Too tightly. She cut off my air supply.

“What’s up?” I asked gasping for breath as I tried to extricate myself from her one-armed-grip-of-death.

“You need a tug hug,” she said, releasing me.

“Come again?”

“I pulled tiles for you,” Armani explained.

Armani is an inaccurate semi-psychic, but enough of her predictions have come true in some warped fashion or another, that I now pay attention to her fortunetelling.

“What did they say?” I asked. Some people read tea leaves, Armani reads Scrabble tiles, seven at a time.

“Tug hug.”

“Tug hug?” I asked.

“Two G’s, an H, two T’s, and two U’s. TUG HUG,” she explained. “And then I saw the paper and I knew it was right!”

“Paper?” I asked, a sinking feeling in my gut.

“The manhunt for your father. It’s on the first page.” She picked a copy of the newspaper off her desk and waved it in my face.

I closed my eyes not wanting to see the mug shots of my father and two other escaped prisoners. First the social worker had shown up unexpectedly during Kowalski’s attack and now it was public knowledge that my father was a convicted felon on the loose. “The front page?”

“Yeah. I didn’t know you had such badass genes in you,” she said with something that sounded like awe in her tone.

I opened my eyes just in time to see Harry, our boss with pepperoni-breath pop around the corner.

His eyes grew wide with horror when he saw me and I imagined him firing me on the spot saying something like ‘Insuring the Future can’t have its reputation sullied by the likes of you.’ But when he opened his mouth, that’s not what came out. “Oh my god,” he exclaimed softly. “Are you okay?”

Realizing he was staring at the giant bruise blossoming on my cheek, I hurriedly assured him. “It’s not that bad.”

“Do you want ice or something? Or a steak?” he asked. “I think boxers put raw steaks on their bruises.”

“No, thanks. I’m fine. Really.” I blinked away tears. I wasn’t sure why I was crying. Maybe it was because my family’s mess was splashed across the front page of the paper. Or maybe it was because my boss, who was usually a first-class jerk who I’ve thought about killing on more than one occasion, was being nice to me. Or maybe it was because the thought “If I had a raw steak, Doomsday would eat it” zipped through my brain and then I remembered she’d been stabbed.

“Are you sure?” Harry asked with genuine concern.

“You don’t look fine,” Armani said, siding with our boss for the first time in history.

Dashing away the tears, I nodded. “I just need to keep busy. I need to get on the phones.”

Before I could move, Armani yanked me to her again in a “tug hug”.

“If you need extra breaks, take them,” Harry urged helpfully.

Disentangling myself from my friend and skirting my way around my boss, I made my way to my desk, turned on my computer, put on my headset, and got to work.

I spent over ninety minutes doing my,
“Thank you for calling Insuring the Future. This is Maggie. How can I help you?”
routine, ignoring the curious looks from my co-workers, who were no doubt gossiping about me.

I was starting to think going to work had not been the best idea after all.

I answered my umpteenth call. “Thank you for calling Insuring the Future. This is Maggie. How can I help you?”

“Don’t hang up, Maggie May,” a familiar voice said.

I didn’t hang up. I did look around furtively to see if anyone was listening in on my conversation.

“Are you there?” my father asked.

“I’m here.”

“I need your help,” he said.

“You need to turn yourself in, Dad,” I whispered into the phone. “Your face is plastered on the front page of the paper and U.S. Marshals showed up at the B&B.”

“The bitches must be pissed,” he said.

“No, actually, they’re more worried than pissed,” I corrected angrily. “Paul Kowalski tried to kill me yesterday.”

“Who?”

“Kowalski. Paul Kowalski.”

“Who the hell is he and why would he want to kill you?”

“I dunno, Dad,” I raged in a whisper. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

“I don’t know a Kowalski.”

That cooled my righteous anger like a fire being doused with water. “You don’t?”

“No, honey, I don’t.”

“Oh.” I fell silent for a moment wondering if Griswald was wrong about a connection between Dad’s escape and Kowalski’s attack.

“I need your help, Maggie,” my father said quietly.

“No,” I replied quickly. “I have marshals at the door, cops spending the night in the witches’ kitchen, and, for all I know, they’re listening to this call right this minute. You need to turn yourself in. I can’t help you.”

My father fell silent.

I looked around my office to see if anyone had noticed my ranting. It didn’t appear that anyone had.

“How did you get this number?” I asked curiously.

“You think I didn’t know where my daughter works?” he asked, sounding hurt.

I wondered if he had any idea I moonlight as a hitwoman.

“I can’t help you,” I insisted quietly. “Just turn yourself in.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” Remembering my discussion with Griswald I added, “Did you mean it when you claimed you didn’t kill that bank teller?”

“You believed me?” he asked, shocked.

“Just tell me, Dad,” I pleaded. “If you didn’t do it tell me who did.”

“Can’t do that, kiddo. It would put you in more danger than you’re already in. And I can’t go back to prison, they’ll kill me.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Can’t tell you that either, but I need you to do something for me.”

“Dad, I told you. I can’t. I—“

“I need you to go see Marlene,” he interrupted.

My mouth went dry. I’d seen my sister a few weeks earlier outside of Katie’s hospital room, but she’d run away from me when I’d tried to engage her in conversation.

“Maggie?” Dad asked.

“M-Marlene and I don’t talk,” I said slowly. “We haven’t for years. She blames me.” A familiar sense of guilt squeezed my chest.

“Blames you for what?” Dad asked.

Blinking rapidly, trying to hold back tears, I tried to speak, but couldn’t as my throat closed painfully.

“Maggie?”

I forced out a whisper. “Darlene’s death.”

I held my breath waiting for him to say that my younger sister’s murder wasn’t my fault. I hoped he’d say it wasn’t my responsibility. I needed him to offer me absolution.

Instead he said, “Tell Marlene to tell you where the treasure chest is.”

Tears ran down my face, dripping onto my desk. My finger hovered above the disconnect button, not wanting to talk to him, knowing that he blamed me too.

“Take the key and get the contents,” dad continued, oblivious of my suffering. “Then—“

“No,” I interrupted.

“Maggie May don’t be like this.”

“Turn yourself in, get yourself killed, I really don’t care,” I told him coldly. “I’m not doing anything for you.” With that I hung up the phone, put my head down on my desk, and began to cry loudly and uncontrollably.

I was dimly aware of Armani hurriedly limping over.

She pulled me into a “tug hug” whispering, “Easy, Chiquita. Just breathe. Breathe,” as my crying devolved into hiccupping sobs.

Harry hustled over. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m worried about my dog,” I blubbered. “I don’t want her to die because of me too.”

“Where is she?” Harry asked.

“At the vet,” I cried.

“Why don’t you go see her?” He suggested. “Take the rest of the day off.”

I looked up at him through a haze of tears.

“Paid,” he offered, obviously eager to get rid of me.

“You should go, Chiquita,” Armani urged.

Nodding, I wiped my tears away, grabbed my purse, and stumbled out of the office, avoiding the curious stares of my co-workers.

It wasn’t until I got out to the parking lot that I remembered that I didn’t have a car because the young police officer had driven me to work.

I stood there in the middle of the lot unsure of what to do.

A red sports car with tinted windows pulled up in front of me. I worried that it was Paul. It was just the kind of vehicle he’d drive, a showy muscle-car with sex appeal. The window began to roll down and I wondered if I’d be facing the barrel of a gun.

I swallowed hard, determined to show him no fear.

“What are you doing out here, Mags?”

I let out a shaky sigh of relief before I countered, “What are you doing here?”

Patrick shrugged. “Keeping an eye out for Kowalski. You’ve been crying?”

I half-turned away. “I must look a mess.”

“I’ve seen you look worse,” Patrick teased gently.

Despite myself I smiled. “You sure know how to make a girl feel better.”

“Seriously, Mags. What are you doing out here?”

I looked back at him. “I want to see Doomsday.”

Tilting his head toward the passenger seat he said, “Get in.”

While I walked around the car and climbed inside, he whipped out his cell phone and dialed it. “It’s Mulligan. Margaret Lee is intent on seeing her dog,” he said in his most policeman-like voice despite the fact he was dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt.