Suddenly the need to speak hit him like a club. Keeping his gaze locked on the frosting-covered plate, he pushed the words out. “I met someone today.”
From the corner of his eye he saw Tino sit back down. “Oh? Another cop?”
No. No more cops. Not in a million years. “No. An archeologist.”
Now Tino blinked. “An archeologist? Like… as in Indiana Jones?”
Vito had to chuckle at the mental picture of Sophie Johannsen slashing through the jungle in a dusty fedora. “No. More like…” He realized a swift comparison was not easily conjured. “She dug up castles in France. She knows ten languages.” Three of them deader than the body you just left. She’d been ashamed at her insensitivity. She’d more than made up for it later. So what had happened in those last few moments?
“So she has a brain. Does she have any other interesting features?”
“She’s nearly six feet tall. Angelina lips. Blond hair down to her butt.”
“I think I’m in love already,” Tino teased. “And her… sweaters?”
A slow smile curved his lips. “Very, very nice.” Then he sobered. “And so is she.”
“Interesting timing,” Tino said blandly. “I mean, you meeting her today of all days.”
Vito looked away. “I was worried I was only interested just because it’s today. I’d convinced myself that today wasn’t the day to make a fast move. That it could be wistfulness or rebound or something.”
“Vito, after two years, it’s not rebound in anybody’s dictionary.”
Vito shrugged. “I told myself I’d come back in a few weeks and see if I felt the same. But then…” He shook his head.
“Then?”
Vito sighed. “But then I walked her to the parking lot. Damn, Tino, she rides a bike. Beemer, zero to a hundred in under ten.”
Tino puckered his lips. “Stacked girl on a fast bike. Now I know I’m in love.”
“It was a stupid reason to jump the gun,” Vito said, disgusted.
Tino’s eyes widened. “So you asked her out? That is interesting.”
Vito frowned. “I tried, but I don’t think I did it very well.”
“Turned you down cold, huh?”
“Yeah. Then took off on her bike like a bat out of hell.”
Tino leaned across the table and sniffed, grimacing. “It could be your unique cologne. That must have been some graveyard.”
“It was. And I get to go back tomorrow for round two.”
Tino put the plates in the sink. “Then you should get some sleep.”
“I will.” But he made no move to rise. “In a bit. I need to chill a little first. Thanks for nuking dinner.”
When Tino was gone, Vito rested his head against the wall behind him, closed his eyes, and in his mind went over those last few moments with Sophie. He wasn’t that rusty at asking a woman to dinner, and frankly he’d never been turned down before. Not like that. He had to admit it had pierced his ego some.
It would be easier to dismiss it as womanly whim, except Sophie didn’t seem like the type to change her mood with the wind. She seemed too sensible for that. So something had changed. Maybe something he did or said… But he was too tired to work through it anymore tonight. Tomorrow he’d just go ask her. That was wiser than trying to guess the mind of a woman, no matter how sensible she seemed.
He’d gotten up to turn out the lights when he heard the noise, little and snuffling, and coming from the lump in Pierce’s sleeping bag. Vito’s heart squeezed. They were just babies, really. And they must have been so scared, seeing their mom collapse like that. He hunkered down by Pierce’s sleeping bag and ran his hand over the boy’s back.
Vito peeled the bag to reveal Pierce’s tear-streaked face. “You scared?”
Pierce shook his head hard, but Vito waited and ten seconds later he was nodding.
Connor sat up. “He’s just a kid. You know how kids are.”
Vito nodded sagely, noticing Connor’s eyes were a little puffy as well. “I know. Is Dante awake, too?” He pulled Dante’s bag back far enough to peek and Dante blinked up at him. “So nobody’s sleeping, huh? What would help? Warm milk?”
Connor made a face. “You’re kidding, right?”
“It’s what they always do on TV.” He sat down on the floor between Pierce and Dante. “So what would help, ’cause I can’t stay awake all night with you. I have to work in a few hours, and I won’t be able to sleep if the three of you are wide awake. Eventually you’d start fighting and wake me up. So how do we resolve this?”
“Mom sings,” Dante mumbled. “To Pierce.”
Pierce gave Vito a yeah-right look. “To all of us.”
Molly had a nice soprano, pure and perfect for lullabies. “What does she sing?”
“The fourteen angels song,” Connor said quietly and Vito knew the song was more than a lullaby-it would be like having Molly here with them.
“From Hansel and Gretel.” It had always been one of his favorite operas, his grandfather’s, too. “Well, I’m not your mom, but everybody get settled and I’ll do my best.” He waited until they were all snuggled. “Grandpa Chick used to sing the fourteen angels song to me and your dad when we were your age,” he murmured, one hand on Dante’s back and one on Pierce’s. And singing it brought back sweet memories of the grandfather he had so loved, who’d fostered his love of all kinds of music from an early age.
When at night I go to sleep, Fourteen angels watch do keep;
Two my head are guarding, Two my feet are guiding;
Two are on my right hand, Two are on my left hand,
Two who warmly cover, Two who o’er me hover,
Two to whom ’tis given To guide my steps to heaven.
“You sing it pretty,” Pierce whispered when he’d sung the first verse.
Vito smiled. “Thank you,” he whispered back.
“He sang at Aunt Tess’s wedding and at your christening,” Connor whispered. He swallowed. “Mom cried.”
“It wasn’t all that bad,” Vito teased and was relieved to see Connor’s lips curve a little. “I bet your mom’s thinking about you right now. She’d want you to sleep.” He sang the second verse more quietly because Dante was already asleep. By the time he finished, Connor was, too. That left Pierce, who looked so little in that big sleeping bag. Vito sighed. “You want to bunk with me?”
Pierce’s nod was quick. “I don’t kick. Or hog the covers. I promise.”
Vito pulled him into his arms, bag and all. “Or wet the bed?”
Pierce hesitated. “Not recently.”
Vito laughed. “Good to know.”
Monday, January 15, 7:45
A.M.
The ringing of the phone next to his bed yanked Greg Sanders out of a sound whiskey-induced sleep. Groggy, he missed his ear on his first two attempts. “Yeah.”
“Mr. Sanders.” The voice was calmly menacing. “Do you know who this is?”
Greg rolled to his back, suppressing a moan when the room spun wildly. Goddamn hangovers. But he’d avoided this as long as he could. It was time to pay the devil his due. Greg didn’t want to think about what that “due” would be, but he was certain it would involve a great deal of pain. He swallowed, but his mouth was dry. “Yeah.”
“You’ve been avoiding us, Mr. Sanders.”
Greg tried to sit up, leaning his spinning head against the wall. “I’m sorry. I…”
“You what?” The voice now mocked him. “You have our money?”
“No. Not all of it, anyway.”
“That’s not good, Mr. Sanders.”
Greg pressed his fingers to his throbbing temple, desperation making his pulse race faster. “Wait. Look, I have a job. Tomorrow. Pays five hundred. I’ll give it all to you.”
“Please, Mr. Sanders. That would be like pissing into a forest fire. Much too little, much too late. We want our money by this evening at five o’clock. We don’t care what you have to do to get it. All of it. Or you won’t be pissing anywhere because you won’t have, shall we say, the necessary equipment? Do you understand?”