Heaven's Fire (28 page)

Okay, so he had the close-up footage right here in his apartment. But what could he do with it?

If he told Gwen, she'd tell Jake, and Jake would know he lied. And she'd want to know why. Then everything would come out. LB's Hot Video, the website, the whole thing.

And after all that work. Shooting the video and cataloguing it, creating the website, hooking up with a payment service so customers could pay him direct and not have to worry about security. He was an e-mogul, that's what he was, and now...

Shit, shit, shit. Why hadn't he just told Jake he was running tape the entire time? Let her think he was just being cautious out there on the barge?

Because he knew that
Jake
knew that Luis didn't "do" safe, that‘s why. She'd have known something was up, just like she would know something was up now, if he pulled the tape out of his butt.

Truth was, Jake saw right through Luis and it gave him the creeps. Like she was a mind-reader, like Professor Xavier in X-Men. Or his mom.

Focus, Man.
Focus
.

On the other hand, if he went ahead and sold the footage anonymously, Jake would recognize it the minute it showed up on CNN, or MSNBC, or Fox News, or....

Screwed.

That's what he was: screwed.

Stuck between a rock and a hard piece.

All those news outlets wanting his tape, and he couldn't sell it to any of them, no matter how much they paid. Not only that, he couldn't even give it to his own station and get credit for it.

Yup.

He was screwed.

And it was all Jake's fault.

Simon had asked Jake to wake him before she went for her swim. That shouldn't be hard, seeing as one of his legs was draped over her, pinning her to the mattress.

Dang, if he were staying for any length of time, she'd need a bigger bed. She tried to slide out from under the leg quietly, intending to go to the bathroom and take care of both her morning breath and bedhead before waking him, but she overbalanced and slithered off the bed and onto Irish on the floor.

The dog's indignant yelp worked better than punk rock.

"Wha!" Simon was up and reaching for something on the nightstand before his eyes were open. There
was
no nightstand on that side, which Jake figured was a good thing. Something told her that was where Simon kept his gun at home, and startling him when a gun was in reach probably wasn't a good idea.

Happily, he'd put the gun safely on the dresser next to the clock radio last night. She'd told him it was set to the punk rock station, so maybe there was some logic to that.

Now Simon stood bare naked on the other side of the bed. Irish was at the bedroom door, also bare naked, with a wounded look on her face. Jake was still on the floor. Yup, bare naked, too.

"Morning!" Jake said brightly.

Simon swiped his hand over his face. "Morning. Why are you on the floor?"

Jake considered telling him she had slept there, but thought the truth was better. "I fell out of bed," she said, getting up.

Simon came over and gave her a hug, not seeming to mind the morning breath. He looked down at her. "You fell out of bed?"

"It's not as tough as you might imagine."

He laughed and nuzzled into her hair. They stood like that for a minute before he said, "Pasquale's funeral is today."

"I know. One o'clock, right?"

"Yup. Are you going to be able to come?"

Jake tilted her head up--way up, gosh this guy was tall--and kissed him before letting go. "I'll be there for the service, but not the cemetery."

"There’s nothing at the cemetery, since Pasquale was cremated. They're just having everyone over to Sadie's after the service."

"That’s right, I forgot.
"
Jake was pulling on her swimsuit.
"
But house or cemetery, I can’t go either way. I should be home early tonight, though. Another producer is handling the Ten O'Clock News, since I'm working the holiday." Tomorrow was the Fourth of July, and the fireworks broadcast.

"When do you start broadcasting down there?" He reached over to untwist the shoulder strap of her suit.

She touched the strap self-consciously. Weird--they were acting like a real couple and all in the space of less than thirty-six hours. "Eight-thirty tomorrow night, but we'll be doing the Five and Six O’clock from Shore Park before that." She picked up her gym bag. "See you later?"

"Yup." Simon kissed her. Then he ran his hand slowly down along her side, over the curve at her waist and down to the notch just inside her hip bone. He paused to massage a small circle with his thumb. "Later."

Jake gave a quiver.

Weird, maybe. But very, very nice all the same.

*****

Simon hung up the phone and looked at the sheet of paper in front of him.

Viagra. Huperzine A. Phosphatidylserine. Coral calcium.

Pat said he wasn’t sure what they meant, but the very fact he’d called and told Simon what he had found on Pasquale’s computer made Simon question that.

Problem was, whatever Pat knew or didn’t know, Simon was most definitely in the dark. Sadie had said Pasquale was
"
all lusty and virile-like
"
and Simon had suspected then that the old man had discovered Viagra or its equivalent. But what were the other substances? Drugs? Additives? Nutritional supplements?

Simon pulled his laptop out of the drawer and fired it up. Opening the search engine, he typed in the four terms and hit
"
Search.
"

One hit: A
"
Natural Sex
"
site.

Well, that certainly fit, but…

He tried eliminating
"
Viagra
"
—the one item he knew—and hit
"
Search
"
again.

Seventeen hits. And the top two were:
"
Alternative Treatments for Alzheimer’s.
"

Simon sat back. At dinner at the Firenze house, Sadie had talked about Pasquale and his
"
vitamins,
"
and Pat had kidded her about the new
"
pots
"
Pasquale had bought her for her birthday. Simon knew there was a theory that aluminum—both in cooking pans and in other substances like deodorants and antacids—contributed to
Alzheimer's
. And then there was Pasquale’s confusing the Teamsters with the Masons. That might have been quintessential Pasquale, or…

Could Pasquale have had Alzheimer’s? Or known someone who did? Or both?

On a hunch, Simon typed in
"
Ohio +Masons +Alzheimer’s.
"

And there it was, the place Angela had mentioned. The one her aunt had wanted Pasquale’s brother Francesco to go: Pathways Center. It was located in the Ohio Masonic Home—and they specialized in Alzheimer’s.

A knock at the door interrupted Simon’s thoughts. Collins. "Let's talk."

Simon reluctantly followed him to his office and sat down, still thinking about Francesco and Pasquale Firenze as Collins put on his reading glasses and rifled through a mountain of papers before finding the one he wanted. "Here's the preliminary report on your house fire. Seems conclusive that it was arson, so we're taking over the investigation."

"Molotov cocktail, like Johannsen thought?"

"Yup, pretty low tech." Collins looked up. "What's your take on it?"

Simon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I'm thinking it's most likely tied to the Firenze case."

Collins loosened his tie and leaned back. "You've confirmed that the fireworks shell was tampered with?"

Simon decided it was time to lay it all out with Collins—except, of course, for what he’d just learned. Simon wasn’t sure, himself, how that fit in.

And then there was the niggling question—one he had no intention of sharing with his boss: Had Simon missed something during the investigation of Francesco’s death? He didn’t think so; but even if he had, what did it have to do with Pasquale’s death?

Setting that question aside for now, Simon told Collins about the silica sand and the information Jake had given him, as well as the discrepancy Cruise had found in the books.

"Everything points to Ray Guida with or without Bryan Williams,
"
he summed up.
"
I'm going to see Williams today. We'll probably have to subpoena his books..." He stopped.

"What?" Collins asked.

"The books," Simon said, feeling like an idiot. "That's why he burned down my house. He thought I had the Firenze financial records there."

"Why would he think that?"

"I left the binders in my car, but I carried in my briefcase and some videotapes. He probably mistook the briefcase for the black ring-binders."

"He followed you?"

"Apparently so." Simon thought about the rustling in the woods behind Sadie's house. "The Firenzes gave the binders to me the night of the fire," Simon said, skipping the part about dinner and a date. In fact, he had no intention of bringing Jake up at all.

"So all of the Firenzes knew you had them."

"Yeah, but if any one of them wanted to cover up something in the books,
"
Simon pointed out,
"
they could have taken care of it before I got there."

"Doesn't the same go for Guida? Why wouldn't he have destroyed the evidence before he staged his death?"

Good question. And Simon didn't have an answer for that one either.

He hoped Bryan Williams did.

*****

And just last week, Jake had been thinking she was about as exciting as paint drying.

She did the same thing every day. Got up, pulled on her swimsuit, drove to the Y, swam up and back thirty-six times and then went home or to work.

Now, all of a sudden, she had a lover. And a lover's dog. And an ex-lover who might be a murderer. And a subordinate who was a thief. Not to mention a funeral to attend.

Jake was dreading Pasquale's funeral, but then who didn't hate funerals? She agreed with Pasquale on the cremation thing: the service, visitation, and all that jazz seemed something best bypassed. Like death, in fact. Cryogenics, now that was the ticket. Right.

Jake was on her twentieth lap by the time she got to the subject of cryogenics. The Croc was swimming in the lane on one side of her and Cindy, another regular, on the other side. Jake paused to adjust her goggles and Cindy stopped, too.

"That guy," Cindy said, watching the Croc swimming away from them, "gives me the creeps. He doesn't take his eyes off you."

Well, at least Jake knew it wasn't her imagination. "You noticed, too, huh?"

"Noticed?" Cindy snorted. "You've got to be kidding. Do you know he switches the side he breathes on so he can look at you?"

Jake didn't understand. "What do you mean?"

"I mean most of us breathe to one side. You and I both breathe on our right. That means when you're going down the lane, you're looking toward the whirlpool. When you're coming up it, you're looking toward the windows.

"Watch." She gestured toward the Croc, who was just making his turn. "He was breathing on his right side when he went away from us, and now he's breathing on his left as he's swimming toward us. He's always looking toward your lane.

"And he only does it," she added significantly, "when you're swimming next to him. I wouldn't be surprised," she lowered her voice as the Croc got closer, "if he's whacking off in the hot tub."

Ugh. The Croc reached their end, paused to look at Jake, and then turned and swam back the other way.

"He's checking out my chest, and I'm flat as a board," Jake said.

Cindy laughed. "You know what they say, 'different strokes for different folks.'" She made a lewd hand gesture to suit her words.

Jake went back to her swim, trying to throw off the tension she felt in her shoulders and back. The guy was creepy, but he
was
just looking, after all. She tried to turn her thoughts to more pleasant things. Since she'd already covered cremation, cryogenics and stalkers, she moved on to Luis.

Criminy, what was she going to do about Luis? She should turn him in, but she really hated to do that. Maybe she'd have a talk with him. Yeah, that was it, a nice mother-to-double-dipper talk.

The locker room was deserted when Jake went in to shower and dress for the funeral. Normally, she'd be thrilled to hit the ebb-tide of locker activity when everyone was in Step class, but it felt a little spooky today.

Pulling her razor and shampoo--today's shampoo courtesy of the Hyatt Hotels--out of her gym bag, Jake tossed the bag back into her locker, and then padded into the shower room. Stepping into one of the narrow shower stalls, she quickly showered, shampooed, and shaved her legs, before turning off the water.