Covet

Chapter 16

Pounding on his door woke Jim up the next morning.

Even though he'd been dead asleep, he was instantly conscious…and pointing the muzzle of a forty across the studio. With the blinds drawn across the big window in the front and the two small ones down over the kitchen sink, he had no idea who it could be.

And considering his past, it might not be a friend.

Dog, who was tucked in beside him, lifted his head and let out a ripple of inquiry. “Not a clue who it is,” Jim said, throwing the covers off and going buck naked to the far side of the front drapes. Parting them ever so slightly, he saw the M6 parked in his driveway. “Vin?” he called out. “Yeah,” came the muffled response. “Hold on.”

Jim put the gun back in the holster that hung on the bedpost and pulled on a pair of boxers. When he opened his door, Vin diPietro was standing on the other side, looking like a hot mess. Although he'd had a wash and a shave and changed into rich-guy casual clothes, his face was bruised and his expression was grim as hell.

“You see the news yet?” he said.

“No.” Jim backed up so the guy could come in. “How'd you find me?”

“Chuck told me where you lived. I would have called, but he didn't have your number.” Vin went to the television and turned the thing on. As he flipped through the channels, Dog went over and gave him a sniffing.

Guy must have passed, because the animal sat on his loafer.

“Shit…I can't find it…it was all over the local news,” Vin muttered.

Jim glanced at the digital clock by his bed. Seven seventeen. The alarm should have gone off at six, but he'd obviously forgotten to set the thing. “What's on the news?”

At that moment, the Todayshow turned it over to a local update, and the Caldwell station's almost beautiful announcer looked into the camera with gravity.

“The dead bodies of two young men that were found in the eighteen hundred block of Tenth Street early this morning have been identified as Brian Winslow and Robert Gnomes, both aged twenty-one.” Pictures of the college meatheads he and Vin had taken care of flashed on the screen to the right of the blonde's head. “The two were the apparent victims of gunshot wounds, their bodies found by a fellow clubgoer about four o'clock this morning. According to a CPD spokeswoman, the pair were roommates at SUNY Caldwell and were last seen headed out to the Iron Mask, a local hot spot. No suspects have been named as yet.” The camera angle changed and she turned into the new lens. “In other news, another peanut-butter recall has been…”

As Vin glanced over his shoulder, his demeanor was focused and calm, which suggested he was not unfamiliar with having his ass in a crack with the police. “That guy with the mustache and glasses who looked down the hall when we were fighting could be a problem. We didn't kill them, but chances are good it's going to get complicated for us.”

True enough.

Turning away, Jim went over to the cupboards and took out the instant coffee. Only half an inch of grounds were left in the jar, not enough for one, much less two cups. Which was fine; it tasted like swill anyway.

He put the jar back and went to the fridge even though there was nothing in it. “Hello? You there, Heron?”

“Heard what you said.” And he wished like hell someone hadn't shot those two idiots. Getting into a fistfight was one thing. Being implicated in a shooting was another entirely. He was confident enough in his false identity on a local level—after all, it had been created by the U.S. government. But what he didn't need was his old bosses up in his face again, and getting flagged for murder by the CPD was going to pop him onto their radar immediately.

“I'd like to keep this as quiet as possible,” he said, closing the refrigerator door.

“Myself as well, but if that club's owner wants to find me, he can.”

That was right; Vin had given the prostitute they'd rescued his card. Assuming the black duffel had been hers, and she didn't toss the info, the link was there.

Vin leaned down and gave Dog a scratch behind the ears. “I doubt we're going to be able to keep totally out of this. I have excellent lawyers, though.”

“I bet.” Crap, Jim thought. He couldn't just bolt out of town—not with Vin's future hanging in the balance here in Caldwell.

Well, wasn't this complication just what the situation needed.

Jim nodded at his open bathroom. “Listen, I'd better get showered and go to work. The guy whose house I'm building can be an asshole.”

Vin looked up with a half smile. “Funny, I feel the same way about my boss—except I work for myself.”

“Least you're self-aware.”

“More so than you. It's Saturday. So you don't have to go to the site.”

Saturday. Damn, he'd forgotten what day of the week it was. “I hate the weekends,” he muttered.

“Me, too—so I work my way through them.” Vin glanced around and focused on the two laundry piles. “You could always neaten this place up.”

“Why bother? The one on the left is the clean, the right is dirty.”

“Then you should do your laundry, 'cuz there's a mountain-molehill thing going on that doesn't bode well for fresh socks.”

Jim picked up the pair of jeans he'd had on the night before and tossed them onto the “mountain” of dirties.

“Hey, something dropped…” Vin bent down and picked up the little gold earring that had been in the front pocket since Thursday night. “Where did you get this?”

“In the alley behind the Iron Mask. It was on the ground.”

Vin's eyes locked on the thing like it was worth more than the two bucks it had probably cost to make and the fifteen it had cost to buy. “Mind if I keep it?”

“Not at all.” Jim hesitated. “Was Devina home? When you got back?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you work things out?”

“Guess so.” The guy disappeared the gold hoop into his breast pocket. “You know, I saw you handle that kid last night.”

“You don't like to talk about Devina.”

“My relationship with her is no one else's business but mine.” Vin's eyes narrowed. “You've been trained to fight, haven't you. And not by some strip-mall martial-arts academy.”

“Keep me posted if you hear anything from the police.” Jim went into the bathroom and cranked on the shower. As the pipes groaned and rattled, an anemic spray arched out and fell onto the plastic floor of the stall. “And don't worry about locking the door behind you. Dog and I will be fine.”

The guy met Jim's eyes in the little mirror over the sink. “You are not who you say you are.”

“Who is.”

Abruptly, a shadow passed over Vin's face, like he was remembering something horrible. “You okay?” Jim frowned. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“I had a bad dream last night.” Vin dragged a hand through his hair. “Haven't quite shaken it.” Abruptly, Jim heard the guy's voice in his head: Do you believe in demons? As Dog whimpered and started limping back and forth between the two of them, the hairs on the back of Jim's neck tingled. “Who was the dream about.” Not a question.

Vin laughed tightly, put a business card on the coffee table and went for the door. “No one. I didn't know who it was about.”

“Vin…talk to me. What the fuck happened when you got home?”

Sunlight poured into the studio as the guy stepped out onto the stairwell's landing. “I'll let you know if I get contacted by the police. You do the same. I left my card.”

There was no pushing the subject, clearly. “Okay, fine, you do that.” Jim recited his cell number and wasn't surprised when Vin memorized it without writing it down. “And listen, you might want to stay away from that club.”

Christ knew adding a set of jail bars to this equation was not going to make things easier. Plus, Vin had looked at that dark-haired prostitute the way he should have been staring at Devina—which meant the less time he was around her, the better.

“I'll be in touch,” Vin said, before shutting the door.

Jim stared at the wooden panels as heavy footsteps went down the stairs and then a powerful engine started up. After the M6 crackled down the gravel drive, he went over and let Dog out and then hit the shower before his half-gallon hot-water tank had nothing but cold to offer.

As he soaped himself up, the question Vin had asked the night before echoed again.

Do you believe in demons?

Across town, Marie-Terese sat on her sofa and stared at a movie she wasn't watching. It was her…fourth in a row? Fifth? She hadn't slept the night before. Hadn't even tried to put her head on the pillow.

Vin was in her mind…in her mind and speaking in that strange voice: He's coming for you. He's coming for you.

When he'd gone into that bizarre trance in the locker room, the message that had come out of his mouth had been terrifying, but his fixated eyes had been even worse. And her first response? It hadn't been, What the hell are you talking about? No, she'd thought to herself, How do you know?

Having had no idea what to do or how to handle herself, much less him, she'd bolted out of the locker room and told his friend to go in there.

She looked down at the business card in her hand. Turning it over for the hundredth time, she stared at what he'd written: I'm sorry. She believed that—

The ring tone that lit off beside her scared the hell out of her, making her jerk so badly the card flipped from her hand and went flying.

Catching her breath, she reached for the cell phone that was next to her on the sofa, but the call failed before she could see who it was and answer it. Just as well—she didn't feel like talking to anyone and it was likely just a wrong number.

The little Nokia was the only phone she had. The one in the kitchen that was wired into the wall didn't have a dial tone because she had never activated the line. The thing was, however private you could make a residential phone number, people could still penetrate the identity shield more easily than they could a mobile, and she was all about anonymity—which was why she had looked only at rentals that had utilities included in the monthly rate: It meant that the bills remained in her landlord's name, instead of being switched to hers.

As she put her phone down, she thought of the past, to the way things had been before she'd tried to leave Mark. Back then, her son's name had been Sean. Her name had been Gretchen. Their last name had been Capricio.

And she was actually a real, live redhead. Unlike Gina at the club.

Marie-Terese Boudreau was a total lie, with the only thing she'd kept true being her Catholic faith. That was it. Well, that and the debt with the lawyers and the private investigator.

At the time, after everything had gone down, she'd had the option of entering into the witness-protection program. But cops could be bought—God knew her ex and his capos had taught her that. So she'd done what she'd had to with the district attorney, and when Mark had pled out, she'd been officially free to run east, getting as far away from Las Vegas as she could.

God, she'd hated having to explain to her son that they were going to change the names they went by. She'd been worried that he wouldn't understand…except when she'd started to explain, he'd stopped her. He knew exactly why it had to happen and had told her it was so no one could know who they were.

That facile knowledge had broken her heart.

As her cell whistled again at her, she picked it up. There were few who had the number: Trez, each of the sitters, and the Center for Single Mothers.

It was Trez and the connection was bad, suggesting he was traveling. “Everything okay?” she asked.

“Did you see the news?”

“I've been watching HBO.”

As Trez started talking, Marie-Terese grabbed for the remote and went to the local NBC station. Nothing but the Today show—

The local update chilled her straight to the bone.

“Okay,” she said to him. “All right. Yes, of course. When? Okay, I'll be there. Thanks. Bye.”

“What's wrong, Mama?”

Before she looked over at her son, she gathered the reins of her face and reeled her expression in. When she finally turned toward him, she thought he seemed closer to three than seven in his pj's with his blanket dragging on the floor.

“Nothing. Everything's fine.”

“You always say that.” He walked over and shuffled up onto the couch. When she handed him the remote, he didn't change the channel to Nickelodeon. Didn't even glance at the TV. “Why are you looking like that?”

“Like what?”

“The bad time is back.”

Marie-Terese reached over and kissed his head. “It's going to be okay. Listen, I'm going to have Susie or Rachel or Quinesha come over and sit with you for a while. I have to go in to work for a minute.”

“Right now?”

“Yes, but I'll get you breakfast first. Tony the Tiger?”

“When will you be back?”

“Before lunch. Just after, at the latest.”

“Okay.”

As she went into the kitchen, she dialed the Center for Single Mothers' babysitter service and said a prayer as the ringing started up. When she got voice mail, she left a message and went through the motions of filling up a bowl with Frosted Flakes.

Her hands trembled so badly, they actually helped the cereal out of the box.

Those two college kids from the club were dead. Shot in the alley behind the parking lot. And the police wanted to talk to her because the clubgoer who'd found the bodies had reported seeing the pair harass her.

As she took out the milk, she told herself that it was just a coincidence. People got violently mugged downtown all the time, and those kids had clearly been on drugs. Maybe they'd been trying tomake a buy and the transaction had gone south.

Please let it not have anything to do with her, she thought. Please let her old life not be catching up with her.

Vin's voice rippled through her head. He's coming for you…

Resolutely shutting that part of things out so she didn't lose her mind with fear, she focused on the fact that in less than a half hour she was going to be sitting down with the police. Trez had seemed confident that her cover was going to stick, that the whole I'm-just-a-dancer was ironclad. But God…what if she were arrested for what she did?

See, this was another thing she'd learned from her husband: If you lived a life with a shaky foundation, the walls could cave in on you pretty damn quick once the cops got to asking questions.

It had turned out that was really why he'd had to hit the road. He and his “friends” had killed one too many of their “clients” in the “building” trade and the feds as well as the locals had come after them. The one saving grace for her was that as a mere wife, she hadn't had a clue about the way the mob had worked. His mistress, on the other hand, had known much more and been brought up on charges as an accomplice.

What a mess it had been. What a mess it still was.

Marie-Terese took the bowl of cereal to her son and got him one of their two TV trays. As she walked around, her heart was pounding so hard it was a wonder Robbie couldn't hear the thing, but she did her best to remain calm on the surface.

Clearly, he didn't buy the act. “Are we going to move again, Mama?”

She paused in the process of flipping open the tray's legs. She didn't lie to her son—okay, not about the majority of things—but she wasn't sure how to coach her words. But then there was no way to do that, was there.

As her phone rang again, she looked at him before she accepted the call from the sitters. “I don't know.”