Blue Smoke (27 page)

P
eople,” O'Donnell said as they walked to the car.

“I felt a little like I was poking at a puppy with a stick.” She glanced back at the house. “They'll either be able to make a joke out of this—tragedy plus time equals comedy. Oh yeah, we love these countertops. We got them because Sarah torched the old ones. Or they'll be divorced in two years. What's your view on divorce, O'Donnell?”

“Never been there.” He settled into the passenger's seat. “Wife won't let me.”

Reena snickered and took the wheel. “She's so strict. We're pretty strict on it, too, in my family. It's the Catholic thing, and the family thing. Some of my cousins have been through rocky patches in their marriages, but so far, things have stuck. Makes it a little intimidating to take the step into holy wedlock. 'Cause it can mean serious lock.”

“You thinking about getting hitched? The carpenter?”

“No. Well, yes, it's the carpenter, but no, not hitched. Just thinking in general.” She hesitated, then thought partners were partners, and the same as family. “My sister Bella told me her husband's stepping out. Has been for years, apparently, but he's rubbing her face in it now.”

“Rough.”

“You ever cheat?”

“Nope. Wife won't let me.”

“That bitch.” Reena sighed. “I don't know what she's going to do. First off, it's a surprise to me that she didn't blab this to everyone, kept it to herself this long.”

“Touchy area.”

“We thrive on touchy in my family. And she's been seeing a therapist—another surprise. It just makes me think how marriage is a land mine. A really intimate land mine. Adultery to kitchen fires. Never a dull.”

O'Donnell shifted in his seat to study her profile. “You're serious about this guy.”

She started to blow it off, then shrugged. “Heading that way, for me. Gives me the wet palms if I think about it too hard. So I'm going to think about something else, like the fact my fire-starter hasn't called since the night he torched the school.”

“You're not figuring he's done.”

“No, no, I'm not. I'm trying to figure how long he's going to make me wait. Meanwhile, you mind if we take a detour? I've got something I want to do.”

“You got the wheel.”

V
ince's law firm was downtown, with a view of the Inner Harbor from his office. She'd been there only once before, but she remembered.

She wondered if the striking brunette who was his administrative assistant was the one he was stepping out with.

The waiting area was plush, neutral tones, very contemporary, with splashes of plum. She wasn't kept waiting in it long, but was escorted through to Vince's spacious office with its wide windows and walls of dramatic art.

He kissed both her cheeks in welcome. There was already a soft drink on ice and a tray of cheese and crackers on the coffee table in his seating area.

“Such a surprise. What brings you to my neck of the woods? Need a lawyer?”

“No. And I won't keep you long. I don't have time to sit, thanks.”

He smiled, charming, handsome, smooth. “Take a minute. The city can afford it. We never get to talk, just the two of us.”

“I guess we don't. You skip a lot of the family events.”

His smile was full of regret. “The demands of the job.”

“And of the women you play with. You're cheating on Bella, Vince, and that's between the two of you.”

“Excuse me?” The charm drained out of his face.

“The fact that you've decided to rub her face in it, humiliate her, makes it my business. You want side dishes? Go ahead. You can break your marriage vows. But you won't continue to make my sister feel like a failure. She's the mother of your children, and you'll respect that.”

He stayed calm. “Catarina, I don't know what Bella's told you, but—”

“Vince, you don't want to call my sister a liar.” It was hard, it took vicious effort, but she stayed calm as well. “She may be a whiner, but she's not a liar. That would be you. The liar and the cheat.”

There was a flash of fury. She felt it burst out of him, saw it kindle in his eyes. “You have no right to come into my office and speak to me like this, about matters that are none of your concern.”

“Bella's my concern. You've been a member of the family long enough to know how we work. Respect her, or divorce her. That's your choice. Make it soon, or I'll make things very hard for you.”

He let out a surprised laugh. “Are you threatening me?”

“Yes. Yes, I am. Give the mother of your children the proper respect, Vince, or I'll see other people know where you're spending your evenings instead of with your wife. My family will take my word on it,” she added. “But I'll have it documented. Every time you go out to play, someone will be watching, and documenting. When I'm done, you won't be welcome in my parents' home any longer. Your children will wonder why.”

“My children—”

“Deserve better from their father. Why don't you think about that? Honor your marriage, or dissolve it. Your choice.”

She walked out. Not like poking a puppy with a stick this time, she thought as she strode to the elevator. No, the weight on her shoulders now was pure satisfaction.

B
o walked into Sirico's carrying the briefcase he used when he wanted to impress potential clients. Or in this case, the parents of the woman he was sleeping with.

It looked to him as if the dinner shift was well under way. He probably should've chosen a less chaotic time. Still could, he decided. But since he was here, he might as well order a pizza for takeout.

Before he could turn toward the counter, Fran walked over to him, bussed both his cheeks. He wasn't quite sure what to make of that.

“Hi, how are you? Let me get you a table.”

“That's okay, I was just going to—”

“Sit, sit.” She took his arm, steered him toward a booth already occupied by a couple eating plates of pasta. “Bo, this is my aunt Grace and uncle Sal. This is Bo, Reena's friend. Bo, you sit with the family until we get a table cleared.”

“I don't want to—”

“Sit, sit,” he was ordered again, this time by Aunt Grace, who studied him with avid eyes. “We've been hearing all about you. Here, have some bread. Have some pasta. Fran! Bring Reena's boyfriend a plate. Bring him a glass.”

“I was just going to—”

“So.” Grace gave his arm two light slaps. “You're a carpenter.”

“Yes, ma'am. Actually, I just stopped in to drop something off for Mr. Hale.”

“Mr. Hale, so formal!” She batted at him again. “You're going to design Bianca's pergola.”

Word did travel, he decided. “I've got some sketches for them to look over. In fact.”

“In your case?” Sal spoke for the first time, jabbed his loaded fork toward Bo's briefcase.

“Yeah, I was going to—”

“Let's have a look.” Sal stuffed the pasta in his mouth, gave a come-ahead gesture with his free hand.

Fran came back with a salad, set it in front of Bo. “Mama says you'll eat a nice salad, then you'll have the baked spaghetti with Italian sausage.” Fran smiled winningly as she set down a red wineglass. “And you'll like it.”

“Okay. Sure.”

“Tell your papa to come over,” Sal ordered Fran as he poured wine from his bottle into Bo's glass. “We're looking at the pergola.”

“Soon as he gets a minute. Do you need anything else, Bo?”

“I seem to have it all.”

When Sal cleared the center of the table, Bo took out his sketches. “You've got your straight-on, your side and your bird's-eye views,” he began.

“You're an artist!” Grace exclaimed, and gestured to the charcoal sketch of Venice on the wall beside her. “Like Bianca.”

“Not even close, but thanks.”

“You got these columns on the ends.” Sal peered over his reading glasses. “Fancy.”

“More Italian.”

“More money.”

Bo lifted a shoulder, decided to eat the salad. “He can always go with treated posts. Either way, I'd paint them. Strong colors. Festive.”

“One thing to draw pictures, another to build. You got any samples of your work?”

“I've got a portfolio.”

“In the briefcase?”

Bo nodded, kept eating, and Sal made another come-ahead gesture.

“Gib's busy, but he'll be over in a minute.” Bianca slid into the booth beside her brother. “Oh, the sketches. These are wonderful, Bo. You've got a lovely hand.”

“An artist,” Grace said with a firm nod. “Sal's browbeating him.”

“Of course he is,” Bianca agreed, and managed to elbow her brother
and pick up a sketch at the same time. “It's more than I imagined, more than I planned.”

“We can always adjust to—”

“No, no.” She waved Bo's words aside. “Better than I imagined. Do you see, Sal? You and Grace could be sitting out there tonight, the pretty little lights, the vines, the warm air.”

“Sweating in August.”

“We'll sell more bottled water that way.”

“A separate kitchen. More help, more expense, more trouble.”

“More business.” There was challenge on her face as she swiveled full-on to her brother. “Who's run this place for the last thirty-five years? You or me?”

His eyebrows went up and down in a facial shrug.

They argued—or so he assumed, since part of the byplay was in rapid Italian with lots of dramatic gestures. Bo played it safe and concentrated on his salad.

Moments later, it was scooped away, and a plate of baked spaghetti set in its place. Gib dragged over a chair, sat at the end of the booth. “Where's my daughter?” he asked Bo.

“Ah . . . I don't know. I haven't been home yet, but she said she'd probably be working late.”

“Look, Gib. Look at what Bo is building us.”

Gib took the sketches, took a pair of reading glasses out of his shirt pocket. Lips pursed, he studied them. “Columns?”

“You can go with posts.”

“I want the columns,” Bianca said definitely, and jabbed a finger in her brother's face when he opened his mouth.
“Basta!”

“It's more than I thought.”

“Better,” Bianca said, and her eyes narrowed on Gib's face. “What, you need new glasses? You can't see what's in front of your face?”

“I don't see a price in front of my face.”

Saying nothing, Bo opened his briefcase again, took out an estimate sheet. And had the pleasure of seeing Gib's eyes widen.

“This is pretty steep.” He passed the sheet to Sal, who had his hand out.

“This is top-dollar labor rates.”

“I'm worth top dollar,” Bo said easily. “But I'm not opposed to bartering. This is great spaghetti, Bianca.”

“Thank you. Enjoy.”

“Bartering what?” Gib demanded.

“Meals, wine.” He grinned at Bianca. “Will work for cannoli. Word of mouth. I'm just getting established in this neighborhood. I can give you the material at my cost. Plus if you provide some of the grunt work—hauling, painting—that cuts it back.”

Gib breathed through his nose. “How much does that cut it back?”

Bo took a second estimate sheet out of his case, handed it to Gib.

Gib took a long look. “You must really like cannoli.” Once again he passed the sheet toward Sal, but this time Bianca snatched it. “Idiot,” she said in Italian. “What he likes is your daughter.”

Gib sat back, drummed his fingers on the table. “How soon can you start?” he asked. And offered his hand.

“Bo, I don't want you to feel obligated to cut your profit like this, to work for below your going rate just because it's my family.”

“Hmm.” He kept his eyes closed, continued to stroke his hand along her bare leg. “Did you say something? I'm in a cannoli coma complicated by a sexual haze.”

Understandable, she thought, since he had had three of her mother's outrageous cannolis before they'd—finally—done justice to his kitchen floor.

“You do good work, and you deserve to get paid for it.”

“I'm getting paid for it. I just ate most of my initial deposit. It's good business,” he continued, anticipating her. “Sirico's is a neighborhood landmark. This job will show off my work, get people talking. Your parents are leaders in the word-of-mouth department.”

“Are you saying we're blabbermouths?”

“You guys sure can talk. My ears have been ringing since dinner. In a good way,” he added, and yawned. “I think I even won your uncle over by the time it was done.”

“Uncle Sal, oldest son, renowned cheapskate. We love him anyway.”

“So, they get a bargain, I get to do a job I'll enjoy—and reap the advertising. And, oh God, eat your mother's cooking until I die.”

“You forgot the sexual bonus.”

“That's personal.” This time he walked his fingers up her thigh, down again. “Doesn't factor. But since I've been fiddling with some plans for your place, you could always take me upstairs and bribe me with continued sexual favors.”

She rolled over on top of him, made him moan. More from excess pastry than desire. “You've been working on plans for me?”

“Fiddling. Haven't had too much time. But your dining room table's almost finished.”

“I want to see. I want to see everything.”

“Table'll be done in another couple days. The sketches are rough yet.”

“I have to see.” She rolled off, tugged his hand. “Right now. Right now.”

He groaned, but sat up and reached for his pants. “Half of the plans are still in my head.”

“I want to see the other half.” She dragged on her own pants, grabbed her shirt. Then she grabbed his face, smacked her lips to his. “Thanks in advance.”

“Thank me after.” He pulled open the refrigerator for water, then frowned when the phone rang. “Who the hell's calling me at one in the morning? Better not be Brad wanting me to bail him out of jail. Though to be fair that only happened once.”

“Don't answer it yet. Wait.” With her shirt half buttoned, she dashed to the phone, studied the readout. “Do you know this number?”

“Not right off.” It clicked, she could see it on his face. “Shit. Shit. Do you think it's him?”

“Let me answer it.” She picked it up, said, “Yes?”

“Ready for another surprise? I hate to repeat myself, but you gotta do what you gotta do.”

She nodded at Bo, then gestured for him to get her paper and pen. “I wondered when you'd call again. How'd you know to reach me here?”

“Because I know you're a whore.”

“Because I slept with you?” she asked, and began to write down the conversation.

“Can you remember everybody you slept with, Reena?”

“I've got a pretty good memory for that sort of thing. Why don't you give me a name, or a place? Then we'll see how memorable it was.”

“Just think about it, you just think about it, about all the men you let fuck you. Right back to the first.”

Her hand jerked. “A woman never forgets her first. That's not you.”

“We're going to party, you and me. But right now, why don't you take a little walk? See what I left for you.”

The phone clicked. “Bastard,” she muttered, hunting up her cell phone. “He's done something close, within walking distance. Don't hang that up,” she added, then picked up her weapon, holstered it on as she dialed from her cell.

“It's Hale. I need you to triangulate this number.” She read it off. “It's going to be a cell phone, and he's probably mobile. I'm giving you the number he called, leaving that line open.” She rattled out Bo's number as she walked out of the kitchen. “He may have set a fire in the vicinity of my house. I want a couple of patrols. I'm heading outside now to check it out. You can reach me . . . Son of a bitch!”

She heard Bo curse behind her, then take off running back to the kitchen. “I've got a vehicle fire, this address. Bastard. Call it in!”

Bo flew by her, armed with a fire extinguisher.

The hood of the truck was up, the engine spitting out fire. Smoke billowed out of the bed, and beneath, pools of gas shimmered with flame. The tires were smoldering and the acrid stench of burning rubber soiled the air. More flames danced over the hood, along the roof of the cab, aided by the pleasant summer breeze.

But fury turned to fear when she spotted the trailer of rags burning toward the open gas tank. Twisting out of the tank with them was a red linen napkin with the Sirico's logo folded down at the corner.

“Get back!” She leaped at Bo, yanked the extinguisher out of his hands. There was either enough left, or there wasn't, she thought dully, and aimed at the tank.

Foam spurted out. Smoke blinded her, choked her as the breeze waved
it in her face. The flavor of fire filled her mouth again as, along the ground, the streams of burning gas slid closer.

“Forget the truck.” Bo grabbed her on the fly, dragged her with him as he sprinted across the street.

The explosion shot the rear of the truck into the air, slammed it back down as the punch of it knocked them off their feet. There was a firestorm of blazing metal, hot shrapnel that rained onto the street, over other vehicles as he rolled with her under the cover of a parked car.

“Are you hurt? Are you burned?”

He shook his head, stared at the inferno that had been his truck. His ears rang, his eyes stung, and his arm felt flame kissed. When he ran his hand over it, it came away bloody.

“I almost had it. Another few seconds—”

“You almost got yourself blown up for a goddamn Chevy pickup.”

“He played me. He timed it.” Fire danced in her eyes as she slammed her fist on the asphalt. “The engine, the bed, distractions. If I'd seen the fuse sooner . . . Jesus, Bo, you're bleeding.”

“Scraped up my arm some when we hit.”

“Let me see it. Where's my phone? Where's my damn phone?” She crawled out, saw it lying broken on the street. “Here they come.” Sirens wailed, and people poured out of neighboring houses. “Sit down over here, let me look at your arm.”

“It's okay. Let's both sit down a minute.”

He wasn't sure if he was shaking, or if she was. Maybe both of them, so he gave in to his weakened legs and sank to the curb, pulled her down with him.

“You've got a gash here.” At the sight of his blood, she forced her mind to go cold. “You're going to need stitches.”

“Maybe.”

“Take off your shirt. We need to put some pressure on this. I can do a field dressing until the paramedics look at it.”

Instead, he lifted his hip, pulled a bandanna out of his pocket.

“That'll do. I'm so sorry, Bo.”

“Don't. Don't apologize.” He stared at his truck while she bandaged
his arm. The pain hadn't gotten through yet. He imagined it would soon enough. But he had plenty of rage inside him as he stared at what had been his. “That takes it off him and puts it on you.”

The response team leaped off their truck, began to smother the fire.

When she was done with the field dressing, she rested her head against her updrawn knees for a moment, then sucked in a breath. “I have to go talk to these guys. I'll send a paramedic over. Unless he says different, I'll drive you to the ER, get that dealt with.”

“Don't worry about it.” He wasn't in the mood for hospitals. He was in the mood to kick some ass. He rose, offered a hand. “Let's go tell them what happened.”

She'd barely finished giving the details when half the people she knew were crowded on the street and sidewalk. Her parents, Jack, Xander, Gina and Steve, Gina's parents, old classmates, cousins of old classmates.

She heard her father call Fran on his cell, tell her no one was hurt and ask her to relay the news to An.

Bases covered, she thought wearily, and turned when O'Donnell pulled up.

“We get a location?” she asked him.

“Working on it. You hurt?”

“No. Bruises where I hit the pavement. Bo played the hero, broke my fall.” She rubbed her eyes. “He let me keep him talking, gave him time to drive around, get the party started. He'd levered up the hood, doused it, dumped a bunch of mattress wadding in the bed, got that going for the smoke. Pools of gas under and around the truck, got the tires going. Big smoky stink, which distracted me long enough.”

Almost too long, she thought. If Bo hadn't dragged her off, it might have been more than his truck seriously damaged.

“By the time I spotted the fuse—he'd hung one of Sirico's dinner napkins out of the tank—we were on borrowed time. I started to deal with it, then Bo grabs me like I'm a football and he's a tight end running for the goal line. Hard to say if he screwed himself out of a truck, and God knows how much in the tools he had in those lockboxes running along the bed, or if he saved my life.”

“Called you at Goodnight's. You check your machine yet––see if he tried there first?”

“No, haven't been back in yet.”

“Why don't you do that now?”

“Yeah. Give me a minute.”

She moved off, had a word with Xander, then walked toward her house.

“Okay, pal.” Xander stepped over to Bo, gave Bo's good shoulder a rub. “Let's you and me walk on down to the clinic. I'll fix you up.”

“Gee, Doc, it's only a scratch.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“You go with Xander, don't argue.” Bianca laid down the law. “I'll go in, get you a clean shirt.”

Bo glanced toward his house. “Door's open.”

Bianca tilted her head, her eyes soft with sympathy. “Do you have your keys? I'll lock up for you.”

“No. I ran out without them.”

“We'll take care of it.” She cupped his face. “We take care of our own. Now you go with Alexander, like a good boy. And tomorrow, when you feel better, you go see my cousin Sal.”

“I thought Sal was your brother.”

“This one is a cousin, and he's going to give you a good price on a new truck. A very good price. I'll write it down for you.”

“Jack, give Bianca a hand, will you?” Gib gave his wife a pat as he joined Xander and Bo. “I'll walk along, make sure the patient doesn't try to run for it.”

“He just likes to see me stick needles in people,” Xander said, taking Bo's good arm.

“That's heartening.” He looked for an escape route and found himself neatly flanked. “The paramedic said maybe a couple stitches. I can wait till the morning.”

“No time like the present,” Xander said cheerfully. “Hey! You had a tetanus shot lately? I love giving those.”

“Last year. Stay away from me.” He looked dubiously toward Gib. “I don't need an honor guard.”

“Just keep walking.” Gib waited until they were through the thicket of neighbors. “I caught bits and pieces back there, and it sounds like there's something going on I should know about. Somebody called Reena at your place.”

“Yeah, the guy from before. The one who's been hassling her. The one who set fire to the school? And she hasn't said anything to you about any of this?”

“Now you're going to.”

Not just flanked, Bo decided. Squeezed. “Better if you asked her.”

“Better if I don't help Xander hold you down while he does a prostate exam.”

“Now
those
are fun,” Xander agreed.

“Point taken. She should've told you, and now she's going to be pissed I did. Maybe being the only child of divorced parents isn't so bad. You guys are work.”

He told them what he knew as they walked the two blocks to the clinic, and inside. Xander's amusement had turned to stony silence. He gestured toward an exam table.

“When did this start?” Gib demanded.

“From what I gather, right after she moved in.”

“And she says nothing.” Gib spun around, began to pace.

“Steve either,” Xander pointed out, and began to clean the gash.

Bo hissed in his breath at the sting. “Can't you medical sadists come up with stuff that doesn't burn down to the frigging bone?”

“You've got a nice gash here, Bo. About six stitches' worth.”

“Six? Well, shit.”

“Going to numb you up.”

He studied the syringe Xander took from a drawer, then decided he preferred looking at Gib's livid face. “I don't know any more than that. I don't know what his game is, but he's got her on edge. She handles it, but it's working on her.”

“Someone she put in prison,” Gib murmured. “Someone she put in, who got out. My little girl and I are going to have a talk.”

“Talk is our euphemism for yelling and swearing and occasionally throwing breakables,” Xander explained. “Little prick.”

“I don't think I deserve to be called a prick just because—ouch. Oh, you meant that kind of prick. Mr. Hale . . . Gib, you're her father, so you've known her longer, you know her better, but I'd say yelling and swearing and throwing breakables isn't going to change a thing.”

Gib showed his teeth. “Never hurts to try.”

The front door rattled open, and a moment later Jack came in with a shirt and shoes. He glanced at Bo's arm, gave a wince of sympathy. “Bianca thought you could use these. Stitches, huh?”

“Six, according to Dr. Gloom here.”

“Close your eyes, and think of England,” Xander said to Bo.