A Tiger's Tale (A Call of the Wilde Mystery) (29 page)

If we had been wolves, he would have abased himself at my feet. But we weren’t wolves and he wasn’t sane.

A heartbeat after admitting defeat, he lunged. And I did what the beast wanted.

I pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

I wasn’t sure who was more surprised. Me, because there was no flash-bang, or Mancini, because he was still breathing.

The problem with linking to the inner wild—no pun intended—was that higher reason was trumped by instinct. I bared my teeth and hurled the gun at Mancini’s head.

He ducked and it sailed past.

I felt my hold on the beast slip just as a blur of movement shot by me.

Jack-Jack.

The little donkey rammed Mancini’s knees, flipping him like a pancake.

Jack-Jack brayed and stomped like a wild attack donkey. Within moments, Mancini was curled in a fetal position, whimpering, “Get it off! Get it off—please!”

“That’s enough, Jack-Jack.”

He let out a snort, turned away, and gave Mancini a departing kick for good measure. Mancini lay on his side, a pathetic, sobbing ball.

All his obsession over predators and he’d been taken out by Jack-Jack.

“Sheriff’s Department!” I turned to the sound of Kai’s voice. He was running down the path, gun drawn at his side.

He stopped short, taking in the scene when he saw our motley crew.

“You’re late,” I told him. “Again.”

“You were supposed to wait.” He frowned at Mancini. “Is that—”

“Vincent ‘the Machete’ Mancini? Yes. Don’t worry about him—he just got his ass kicked by a miniature donkey.”

Kai glanced at Jack-Jack, who stood over Mancini with his ears pinned back, eyeing the psychopath with open hostility.

Protect.

You did great, Jack-Jack.

The donkey gave me a snort of acknowledgment, but kept his attention on Mancini.

“That”—I pointed to Ferretto—“is wannabe mob boss and half-ass mastermind Frank Ferretto.” He still stood with his hands raised and I soon realized why. Emma had snagged Mancini’s knife and was holding it at the ready.

“And over here we have—” My jaw went slack as I turned to point out the third bad guy.

Logan was gone.

I vaguely recalled seeing the pile of limbs and grunts that was Ozeal, Brooke, and Logan as I faced off against Mancini. Out of my peripheral vision, I’d noticed Ozeal shift her ample weight to more effectively pin Logan to the ground while Brooke wrestled with his legs. I hadn’t seen him get away. Apparently, Brooke and Ozeal hadn’t either.

Still on the ground, they exchanged a dazed look.

“Where did he go?” I asked.

Ozeal started to answer my question, noticed the duct tape dangling from her jaw, and snatched it off before saying, “I don’t know. When I heard Jack-Jack, I looked over at what was happening and then . . . I don’t know.”

She surveyed the ground under her as if she expected to find Logan still there.

Brooke seemed as confused as Ozeal.

“He—he was just here,” the girl said. “It’s like he disappeared. Like a . . . a . . .”

“Like a ghost,” I finished.

There was shuffling behind us and Kai and I spun around. Jake huffed out of the shadows a moment later.

Before the detective could speak, Kai informed him that one suspect was still on the loose. In less than two minutes, Jake had cuffed both Ferretto and the still-moaning Mancini while Kai jogged off in the direction Logan would most likely have taken.

A flood of deputies arrived not long after. They searched, but Logan was nowhere to be found.

• • •

“Shouldn’t you be out there looking for Logan, instead of asking me a bunch of questions?” Brooke asked Jake.

We were on our second round of questions. Jake had started round one moments after it became clear Logan had escaped, but Ozeal had cut him off before he got going. Hands planted on her hips, she informed him that the animals were hungry and upset and they’d be fed and settled before she’d be talking to the police.

Jake, being an intelligent man, conceded. Brooke and I had taken care of Boris and the cougars while Ozeal secured Jack-Jack and tended to Larry and the rest of the cats.

Brooke had become increasingly agitated the closer we’d come to finishing our task and therefore, to talking to the cops.

Now she stood with her arms crossed, doing her best to answer every question Jake posed with another question, much to his irritation.

He was giving her his hard, cop stare. Brooke, to her credit, seemed almost unfazed as she returned his glare.

I could almost hear the old western showdown theme whistle through the night air as I watched them.

I started to call a time-out, but Kai, who was standing next to Jake, beat me to it.

“Grace, why don’t you take a minute and explain to Miss Ligner—”

“Don’t call me that,” Brooke snapped. “I never wanted to change my name. My mom did it because Bob wanted her to. I should still be Brooke Sartori.”

“Give us a few minutes.” I put my arm around Brooke’s shoulder and steered her away from the two men.

We walked toward the parking area, which by then was clogged with emergency vehicles parked in a helter-skelter fashion. A few lights flashed, causing red and blue light to bounce at odd angles off every surface.

I spotted Emma sitting in the back of an open ambulance as a paramedic finished bandaging the cut on her arm. She was smiling and chatting with the handsome young man, and he seemed to be taking his time dressing her wound.

Emma.

“Why are you stonewalling?” I asked Brooke, turning to face her.

She didn’t answer. Surprise, surprise.

“You’re going to have to talk to the cops at some point. And so am I.”

“Please—you can’t tell them anything.”

“Kai and Jake are the good guys.”

“Yeah? What are they going to do if we tell them about Josiah? Or about what Ferretto was looking for? They’ll take Josiah to jail or some nuthouse and my dad . . . if they find out about the key . . .”

“Josiah will be fine. Reedy will help look after him.”

“And my dad?”

“They already know Ferretto was after something you had.”

“But if we tell them, they’ll find out about the safe deposit and the book and the blackmail. If the cops get the book, they’ll use it to keep my dad in jail. My mom’s a druggie. You want me to end up in a foster home?”

“Your mom is getting help. And you won’t end up in a foster home.”

“Yeah? You sure about that? Because I’m not.”

“Jake is a homicide detective. He doesn’t care about some little blackmail book, except that it was a motive for murder.”

“Then it doesn’t matter. We don’t have to tell them.”

“A lie of omission is still a lie.”

“So when you
omit
the truth about your ability—is that a lie?”

She was right. I had lied countless times about what I could do, even to the police. Who was I to throw stones? Still . . .

“Look, can’t we . . . can’t we just wait?” she asked, her eyes pleading.

“For what?”

“For my dad to get out of jail.”

“Your dad would just get rid of whatever’s in the box.”

“Not if I give it to you.”

“Give what to me?”

“The book. We can go to the bank tomorrow and if there’s a little black book or something, you take it with you and then give it to the cops later.”

I shook my head but Brooke was on a roll.

“Please. You can go to the cops after my mom’s out of rehab. That way, I can see my dad for a little while, too, maybe.” Her voice caught and she swallowed back the emotion. Tears welled in her blue eyes. I watched as one spilled over.

Crap.

“How are we supposed to get access to the safe deposit box? The only people allowed in are your mom and dad.”

“Well, then. I guess you’ll have to be my mom.”

• • •

I’d taken Brooke to visit her mother early the next morning and, in true delinquent fashion, she had swiped her mom’s wallet while giving her a parting kiss on the cheek.

When Brooke handed me her score—her mother’s old driver’s license—I admit to being surprised.

“See? I told you.”

“Your mom has blond hair.”

“She colors it now.”

I studied the license. Though Anne Ligner’s hair was lighter than mine and styled differently, the photo was old and looked enough like me to pass at a glance. I just had to practice her signature.

“The name is still Sartori on here.”

“Why do you think I wanted to use it?” she said with a sly grin. “Now, we just need the key.”

We made the trip to Happy Asses and, with Ozeal’s blessing, entered Boris’s enclosure. The tiger was so happy to see Brooke and so intent on giving her loving head-butts and demanding she pet him, I had to be the one to retrieve the key. Which meant reaching past my elbow into the damp, dark, hollow end of the log.

Only brushed one spiderweb. Lovely.

Emma was thrilled to assist our covert endeavors by supplying me with a polished skirt and blazer along with a pair of oversized sunglasses. She slathered so much makeup on my face I felt like it would crack if I smiled too broadly.

Good thing I wasn’t in a smiling mood.

I tucked the license in one of Emma’s classy purses and we were on our way.

“Does your mom go inside the bank much?” I asked as we pulled into the lot and parked. I’d borrowed Emma’s Jaguar just to complete the look and to assure the least amount of animal hair would affix itself to my clothes.

“No. Just the drive-through. Well, she used to. But Bob does all the money stuff now—or did.”

“Okay. You ready?” I asked and donned the oversized glasses.

“Let’s do it.”

My nerves jangled with the little bell on the door and became more frayed the closer we got to the teller. It was silly. I’d faced a raging bull—I could handle a mundane, completely illegal visit to a safe deposit box.

Still, my heart continued to pound even after I managed to sign the card and Brooke and I were led into the safe. The attendant used both her key and Brooke’s to open the door, smiled politely, and left.

Brooke and I looked at the box, then at each other. She nodded and I clasped the handle, slid the long box out of its drawer, and set it on the narrow table provided.

“Go ahead,” Brooke whispered.

“It’s your box,” I replied, just as quietly. She reached out and slowly lifted the lid.

Along with a small, square jewelry box and a velvet pouch containing a pocket watch, there was, in fact, a book. Just not the book we had expected.

“A Bible?” I said, staring at the large, leather-bound book.

“It must be my grandma Sartori’s,” Brooke said after she’d opened the jewelry box. “This is her crucifix.”

Baffled, I lifted the heavy book out and set it on the table with a
thunk
.

“But . . . it can’t be just a Bible. There has to be more to it. I opened the book and flipped through the pages, expecting to find a cutout or some other hidden compartment.

The only thing I found was page after page of scripture.

“I don’t get it. There’s nothing here.”

“Maybe Ferretto was wrong or maybe he knew there was a book in here, just not
the
book.”

I shook my head. “He’s desperate enough to work with Mancini but he’s not stupid.”

We searched the interior of the box, looking for a false bottom or something taped to the sides, but came up empty.

I glared at the Bible, picked it up, held it by the spine with both hands, and shook it. Nothing fell out.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I started to place the book on the table when I heard something. A scraping, rattling sound.

I held the Bible by the spine and shook it again. And again when I began to turn the book right-side up I heard . . . something. Then it hit me.

“The binding.”

“What?”

“In these old books the leather binding on the spine is loose—see?” I held the book in my palms and opened it. The spine separated from the leather, forming an oval cylinder. I tilted the Bible and heard a metallic tingle as something hit the tile floor.

“What was that?” Brooke asked, then bent to pick up the object.

“I don’t—” I stopped, shocked when I saw what she held.

“It’s another key.”

“Why would my dad hide a key to the safe deposit box
in
the safe deposit box?”

I took the large, flat key from her and studied it. “Because it’s not a key to this box. Look. The numbers are different.”

“So that means there’s another box?”

“Number 322.”

We turned to the walls of safe deposit boxes and began scanning the numbers.

“Here!” Brooke pointed to a large square door at the bottom of the wall near the far corner of the room.

I grabbed the bank attendant’s master key from the first box and knelt beside Brooke.

“This is a big box.” I stated the obvious as I inserted the keys and turned them. The locks clicked and the door popped open.

Brooke clasped the handle but I put my hand over hers.

“Hang on.”

“What?”

“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.” It had occurred to me that a box this big might contain more incriminating evidence than a sixteen-year-old needed to see.

“Why not?”

“Because there could be—” God only knew what in a box that size. “Too much stuff in here to take.”