Unmarked Man Read online

  “Don’t make me use force, Spagnola.”

  She turned to Nick’s hard expression. The shakiness subsided. She blessed him for the second time that day.

  “Easy, Officer. I’ll come willingly.” She moved toward him. “Just like ol’ times.”

  He smiled as he escorted her to the sedan, its lights still flashing like a Mardi Gras. “You said it yourself, Cissy.” He opened the car’s back door and stood waiting for her to enter as if this were the prom night they’d never had.

  “People don’t change.”

  Chapter Three

  As soon as the car door slammed, she began to shake. She clutched her handbag on her lap, the bulk adding no comfort. She pressed her molars to each other, locked her jaw and focused on the clean edge of Nick’s hairline in front of her.

  “Why would a man on a motorcycle want to kill me?” She leaned toward that precise line bisecting Nick’s nape.

  “I asked you first.”

  She clasped her purse. The trembling traveled up and down the biceps she’d always thought of as scrawny. “And that phone call.” She flexed her arms to still the shaking and give her some sense of dignity. The pathetic results were the opposite.

  “Someone wants you out of Dodge.”

  She slumped back against the seat. “Why would anyone want to kill me?” she repeated with such fresh incredulity she expected a smart remark from Nick.

  “Maybe he wasn’t trying to kill you.”

  “The man had a gun, Nick.”

  “Maybe he was trying to scare you. Give you a warning.”

  “Like the phone call?” Cissy considered.

  “Maybe whatever is going on, you’re in the way. An unnecessary complication.”

  Cissy studied her old lover’s neck, the back of his head strong but with an elegance of form and shape he probably despised. A shaved nape, and she was sweating. She looked away, fed up with herself. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t had her share of men. Granted, none as memorable as Nick—except for her ex-husband, who remained infamous in her memory for completely different reasons. She stared out the window, watched the buildings of her past go by.

  “Or maybe our Harley-riding fast-tracker thought you were someone else.”

  “Like who?”

  “The car’s owner.”

  “My mother?”

  “Maybe your mother saw something, knows something she’s not supposed to. Maybe the bad guys know she drives a red 1950 Thunderbird.”

  “If the bad guy thought it was Mama driving Cherry, then that would mean my mother is still out there, somewhere, alive.”

  “It’s a theory,” Nick cautioned. “That’s all. Some thinking out loud until we catch a break.” He glanced in the mirror at her. “You named the car?”

  “My mother did.” She leaned forward. “Did you go talk to Eddie?”

  “I went to the bar, but he hadn’t shown up yet. One of the guys taking a brewery delivery said he usually didn’t show up during the week until later. I made a few other stops, was on my way to the docks when I saw ‘Cherry’ pulling out by Mother’s.” In the rearview mirror, she saw his lip curl. “Surprise, surprise.”

  “What’d you learn on your ‘other’ stops?”

  “That’s confidential information on an ongoing investigation.”

  “I’ll bet it gives you a buzz to say that.” She sank into the seat. “Do you think they’re alive, Nick? My mother and sister?” She met his gaze in the mirror, the black eyes that rarely revealed. She had expected anything but silence. It scared her most of all.

  “I can’t answer that, Cissy.”

  She looked away to the street, from one past to another.

  “Not yet.”

  She heard his promise. She found his eyes again in the mirror and was glad she had loved him once.

  “Here we are.” The car pulled up in front of a wide one-story building with a large parking lot. Nick turned to her. “Go get legal again. I’ve got to go back to the station, fill out reports, check on some things. I’ll pick you up in about an hour. When you get done, don’t go anywhere. Stay right here until I get back.”

  He’d done it again. Told her what to do. Halfway out the door, she whipped around, ready to do battle and caught the concern in those eyes that never told anything. Quick as she’d caught him, the eyes went blank. Her defiance fell. It’d been a long time since concern had come her way. Nick Fiore was the least likely source. Surprise, surprise.

  “Behave yourself,” he told her. “You go getting yourself offed, and I’ll have to go back down to the precinct and fill out a mess of paperwork.”

  She smiled as she slid out of the car. “I just might fall in love with you yet.”

  The DMV had gone twenty-first century with a neon board that stated in red lights which number was being served. Tubular lights, pointing heavenward, blinked on with a soft chime beside the clerk that would process the next request. The woman at the front desk had explained that since Cissy’s expiration was less than two years old, she could renew using the regular procedure. She filled out the necessary paperwork and sat down on one of the benches in long rows in the center of the room. Cissy focused on a clerk with a face as thin as his tie, but she thought about the man on the motorcycle, saw again the slender, almost elegant silver length of the gun rising, aiming. A chime sounded. Cissy jumped. Her number was flashing on the neon board. She got up, moved toward the counter.

  The clerk, a middle-aged woman with thinning hair and a blank expression, slid Cissy’s paperwork across the counter without looking up at her, reviewed it, checking the various boxes and blanks to make sure they had been filled in correctly. “Please look at the eye chart on the wall and read the lowest line possible.”

  Cissy read the letters on the chart. “Step to the left, place your feet on the footsteps,” the clerk instructed without looking at her.

  Cissy did as told, involuntarily patting her hair. She showed her teeth. “I don’t have anything in my teeth, do I?”

  The camera blinked in answer.

  “Hey, I wasn’t ready. Redo.”

  The woman gave her a flat gaze before she moved back to her station. “This isn’t Olan Mills.”

  “Well, at least, it’ll beat the ‘do’ on my last one. I looked like—”

  “That’ll be forty-three dollars.” The clerk punctuated her request with the thud of a stamp. “If you’re writing a check, make it payable to—”

  “I’m not writing a check,” Cissy informed her. Her checking account balance had been decidedly unreliable since tech stocks went in the toilet.

  She reached into her briefcase-size purse, fumbling for her wallet. Her fingers closed around the cash from Cherry’s front seat. Cold cash was an inept expression. Even this mystery money was warm as a good memory.

  “Credit card?” the woman said, her gaze on the wall clock behind Cissy.

  “Yes.” Cissy snatched her hand away from the rubber-banded root of all evil and found her wallet. She pulled it out and opened it. A ten and four ones were in the cash compartment. Plastic cards lined the opposite side. She slipped one out and handed it to the clerk.

  The woman walked to a counter behind her, slid the card through for authorization. She walked back a minute later. “Declined.” A note of superiority in-grained itself in the announcement.

  Cissy grabbed the card. “Those Macy’s one-day sales are going to kill me yet. Here.” She swept another card out of her wallet. The clerk gazed down at it dubiously before taking it and walking to the back. Cissy crossed her fingers not to be done in by the DMV. The clerk came back with a credit slip for her to sign, and she breathed easy.

  The clerk handed her a paper. “This is a temporary license. Your new license arrives in the mail in four to six weeks.” The clerk pressed a button and the light above her desk gave a ping. Cissy jumped again. She stepped away from the counter, was slipping the temporary license in her wallet when she heard someone call her name.

  She l
ooked up, past the clerk.

  “It’s me.” A buxom woman in rebellious orange amid the beige and the bland stepped out of one of the offices that banked the back of the service area. “Juanita Willis. Well, actually it’s Juanita Carlucci now.”

  Juanita Willis. She’d taught Cissy how to French inhale and shorten the skirt of her school uniform by rolling up the waistband, but it was Cissy who had introduced her to Tommy Carlucci.

  “Juanita!” Pleasure filled Cissy’s voice as she smiled at her old friend. “You didn’t actually go and marry that wild man, did you?”

  “You know I did. And I’ve got the certificate from the Viva Las Vegas Wedding Chapel, two kids, a raised ranch in the country and a fat black Lab to prove it.” Juanita came through the counter’s half door to hug Cissy. “Give me a hug, girl, and lie to me and tell me I look good.”

  Laughing, Cissy hugged her girlhood friend. “Honey, believe me when I tell you you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  “Let me look at you.” Juanita leaned back to take Cissy in. She nodded her approval, linked her arm through Cissy’s. “Got a minute to catch up? I’ve got a half-eaten bag of red licorice twists and enough pictures of the kids in my wallet to make you beg for mercy.”

  Cissy glanced out the windows to the parking lot. No sign of Nick.

  Juanita noted Cissy’s glance. “Unless you have to get somewhere.”

  “No, no,” Cissy assured her. “Nick’s supposed to pick me up and I was just checking to see if he was waiting for me.”

  “Nick Fiore?” Juanita raised her brows and smiled slyly.

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “I’m not thinking anything, because I know you’re going to tell your old buddy Juanita everything.”

  “Not until I see your kids.”

  The two women went into Juanita’s office and closed the door. Over licorice and with photos spread out on the desktop, Cissy filled Juanita in on the past twenty-four hours.

  Juanita shook her head when Cissy finished, her face grave. “Tommy and I moved out of the city when the kids were born. We commute in for work, but we got a little place down in Edgemont. We’ve lost touch with what’s going on in the old neighborhood. I wish there was some way I could help you.”

  Cissy looked at her old friend. “Actually, there might be.” Cissy smiled. Juanita smiled back. They could have been eleven again, about to cut P.E. to sneak smokes down by the felt factory. A short time later, Cissy had the information she needed and the two friends hugged goodbye. Both were wise enough not to promise to stay in touch.

  She went outside. The heat hit her head-on. She leaned against the gray building in the shade of the roof’s overhang and waited for Nick. Thanks to Juanita, technology and a partial plate number, Cissy had learned the Harley was registered to Phillip Lester on Pleasant Pond Drive in a suburb west of the city. Nick hadn’t fooled her with his paperwork excuse. He’d gone back to the station to run the partial plate and get a name and an address. He’d probably already paid a visit to Phillip Lester. Not that he’d let her know if he had learned anything. He’d made it clear she was supposed to sit back and let the police handle the case.

  Fat chance.

  Her T-shirt stuck to her back. Her purse hung heavy on her shoulder. She cast a subversive glance inside it. The cash lay there, unreal. The top bill showing was a twenty. She reached in, lifted its corner. Another twenty, and another, and another. Nice safe denomination. Common, unobtrusive, easy to change. She reached past the bundle to the next. Same bills, as far as she could tell, tied up neat as a Christmas present.

  Had her mother been planning on leaving her father, and this was her means? If so, why would she leave it behind along with the car? Had she meant to get away but got no farther than her husband’s wrath? Despite the heat, Cissy went cold all over. She spied Nick pulling into the parking lot. She slid her hand out of her purse, stepped out from beneath the overhang.

  He stopped in front of her. Knowing there were no civilians or fellow officers to worry about, she opened the front door this time and climbed in.

  “Are you legal?” he asked.

  She turned her head, stretched her neck toward the cool air blasting from the air-conditioning vents. “Fine fat wad that’ll do me. Or my mother or sister.” She decided to tell him later about running into Juanita. “Have you heard anything? Did anyone spot the man on the motorcycle?”

  Nick pressed the gas pedal. “We’re investigating.”

  “Another fine fat wad.” Cissy slumped against the seat. “What about Cherry?”

  He threw her a glance. “Why do women have to name their cars?”

  “Why do men have to grab their crotches?”

  He smiled, looking for the first time as if he was enjoying himself. “One of the patrol officers drove ‘Cherry,’—” he said the name with resignation “—to Al’s Auto Palace.”

  “Sounds swanky.”

  “He’ll fix her right and charge you a fair price. Al’s a friend of mine.”

  She turned toward him. “You got a lot of friends, Fiore?”

  “As many as I have enemies.”

  “Occupational hazard?”

  “I’m going to stop, get a couple of slices before we go see Al. Want anything?”

  Typical man, Cissy thought. Change the subject if the talk turned to anything personal or that smacked of feelings. Nick had chosen food. Food, sex or football. The big three, varying in priority depending on the month and the time of day.

  “Rocky’s went out of business two years ago. The old man had a stroke and the one son sold the business. But Napoli’s still has a decent pie.” Nick swung onto Douglas.

  Cissy would have preferred to go straight to the garage. She had only seen under the front seat on the passenger side, stuck her hand between the cushions on the driver’s side when searching for the seat belt. Lord knew what other secrets Cherry might have. At least Cissy knew the trunk only held her overnight bag.

  Her purse weighed heavy on her lap. She could tell Nick about the money. She gave him a sidelong glance, made herself get past his looks that made women lose their self-respect. Even before he’d been professionally trained, he’d learned not to trust. So had she. Until she knew more about what was going on and could take a better look inside the Thunderbird, she wasn’t ready to confide in anyone. She rested both hands on her handbag.

  Nick pulled over, parked about a half block from a dark red and green building with Pizza etched on the windows in neon.

  They were almost to the building when someone called out Nick’s name. They both turned to see a brown-haired man coming toward them. Despite the heat, the man wore a full suit. He had put on weight since Cissy had last had the pleasure, but she easily recognized Tommy Marcus. He had the kind of face that would have made him a good priest. It had been rumored once that his mother, Connie, God rest her soul, had had her fingers crossed. But instead, Tommy had gone off in search of a fortune and came back as close to heaven as one could get without the Pope’s blessing—a rich man. Her mother had never failed to mention it. Her efforts had tripled after Cissy’s divorce.

  “Detective Fiore.” The man held out his hand, included Cissy in his smile. He took a double take, his grin widening.

  Cissy held out her hand. “How are you, Tommy?”

  “Cissy? Cissy Spagnola?”

  “In the flesh.”

  He pulled her into an embrace. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Thanks. It’s good to see you, too, Tommy. You’re doing well, I hear. Congratulations.”

  He waved aside her compliments. “Everybody’s got to make a living, right? So, how long you in town for? Or are you back for good?”

  “I’m not sure,” she answered honestly.

  “Well, it’s great to see you again. Hey, what about this guy?” He clamped his hand on Nick’s shoulder. “How’s the war going, Detective?”

  “Depends on who’s winning.”

  “I hope the good ma
n, Detective. The good man.”

  “We’re heading into Napoli’s for some slices. Why don’t you join us?” Nick invited.

  “Sure, tempt me with Napoli’s pie.” Tommy patted his generous stomach. “Is that how he got you to come along?”

  “No, he threatened to arrest me,” Cissy replied.

  “That’s still a possibility,” Nick warned.

  “I knew there was a reason beautiful women hung out with you.”

  “Believe what you want, Marcus, but you need more than a big gun.”

  Marcus smiled. “Man’s an animal. Much as I hate to pass on Napoli’s, I have to speak at the Sons of Italy tonight, and if I show up full before the ladies have a chance to feed me, well—”

  He didn’t have to explain. Nick and Cissy understood an Italian woman’s wrath when food was refused.

  “Another time then.”

  “Most definitely.” Tommy smiled at Cissy. “We’ve got to get together while you’re in town.”

  “How’s funding going for the Keeping It On the Courts program?” Nick asked.

  “I’ve almost got Canestra to double it in this year’s budget.”

  “Good work. Tell him he’ll have the precinct’s full support.”

  The two men shook hands. “Cissy,” Tommy took her hand. “I really do hope we’ll have time to catch up.”

  “I hope so, too,” Cissy replied.

  Tommy left. “Sounds like Tommy will be running for office himself someday,” Cissy noted as she and Nick headed toward their restaurant.

  “No one would be surprised if he did. He already hangs out with some political heavyweights, serves on the governor’s advisory business board and has been involved in several neighborhood revitalization projects.”

  “What’s ‘Keeping It On the Courts?’”

  “Inner city basketball program some of the guys at the station and myself coach. I got my cousin’s son playing. My cousin was in his twenties when he was killed in a bar firebombing. He was out celebrating the birth of his firstborn. A boy.”