Rest in Pieces (31 page)

He worked his phone out of his pocket. “Let me make a call and I’ll have all of your things moved over within the hour.”

“Hold on. I’m not moving in with you.” This was ridiculous. “I can’t move in with you. I have a life.”

It wasn’t the greatest life, but it was mine.

He nodded. “Okay, then it’s settled, I’m moving in with you.”

Seriously, it was like talking to a fence post.

“No, when I leave here, I’m going to my house and when you leave here you’re going to your house. We are not moving in together. My house and your house…two separate houses.” I was dying to use my hands for some serious hand–talking but my shoulder hurt and he had my other hand in lock–down.

“I can’t protect you if I’m not near you.” His tone suggested that I was two years old, and he was explaining that the oven is hot and I shouldn’t touch it.

Were we back to the protecting thing? I thought we’d already covered that. “Really, I can take care of myself. I’m not in any danger now. All of the contract killers are dead so there’s no one left to take me out.”

His mouth dropped open. “There’s a hit out on you?”

Oh, crap. I was losing ground—well, I really hadn’t had that much to begin with so it wasn’t like I’d lost much. “Maybe.”

“Ay dios mio, Carino.” He sat back but kept hold of my hand. “How do you get yourself into so much trouble?”

I tried to shrug and pain shot down my arm. Not being able to shrug was seriously going to suck. How was I supposed to get my point across without a shoulder shrug?

“I don’t even know Cervantes, much less know why he wanted Molly to kill me. According to the email, he ordered my hit on October first. Nothing happened in or around then that I can remember. I don’t know Cervantes.” I enunciated the last sentence in case he suddenly couldn’t understand English.

“What email?” His tone was level.

Double crap.

“Nothing. Did I say email, I meant…um…” I had nothing. Must be all of the pain medication.

“What email?” Slowly, one eyebrow arched.

How come everyone else could do that but me? Was there some surgery I could have that would allow me to do the one eyebrow up thing?

He stared at me for a good minute.

“Okay, we found an old cell phone in the…” he didn’t know about the safety deposit boxes, “um…same place we found the diamonds. Molly used it to get instructions from Cervantes or whoever she worked for.”

Daman closed his eyes like he was praying for patience and then he opened them. “Where is this phone?”

“In the cafeteria in Monica’s back pocket.” Now that I thought about it, we probably should have hidden it with the money and gold, but it was too late now. “When she comes back, you can have it.”

It’s not like we needed it anymore.

“Did it ever occur to you to hand the phone over to me when I told you about who I really am?” He whispered.

“We’re good. This room is bug free.” And come think of it, so would my house when I got home. That was going to be wonderful.

Daman shook his head. “Bugs are only one type of listening device. There are many others.”

“I have the signal jammer on.” I conveniently left out the part where it had been on the whole time, but he didn’t need to know that I’d turned it on before the manicures. I certainly couldn’t turn it on immediately after. I looked down at my purple sparkly nails. Kim–Li really was amazing. I’d been shot and no chipping. “Speaking of your diamonds…do you want them back?”

He stared at me like he hadn’t heard me. “I’m sorry. I thought you were going to put them back where you found them.”

“Well you know…there’s a tiny problem with that.” I held my right index finger close to my right thumb indicating how itty–bitty this problem is. “You see the thing holding the phone and diamonds accidentally…” on purpose, “got run over by Haley’s Rover. Since the thing holding everything was destroyed and we found it outside, we couldn’t put everything back.”

I smiled brightly in the hopes that my radiant smile would distract him.

He looked at me the way Ricky Ricardo looked at Lucy when she went on a game show to win a thousand dollars because she’d blown all of the grocery money on new furniture.

“Did you find anything else with the diamonds and the phone?” He looked like he really didn’t want to know.

“Nope.” I continued the radiant smile in case he finally noticed its radiance.

“I don’t believe you.” He scrubbed his face like he wasn’t sure what to do with me so scrubbing his face was better than strangling me. “Since you won’t move in with me and you don’t want me to move in with you, I’m installing a security system in your house.”

He glanced at his watch. “In fact, they should be finished with it right now.”

“You played me…again.” I would have cross my arms in indignation except for that whole bullet hole thing. “I can’t believe it.”

He grinned and the dimples finally came out. “Can’t play a player.”

“You think you’re so cute, don’t you.” I had to bite my bottom lip to keep from smiling. He was cute, damn it.

“There’s one more tiny little thing.” This time he held his index finger close to his thumb showing me how itty–bitty of a thing it really was. “Your van is gone.”

I sat up. “I beg your pardon.”

“Your old, ugly brown van had a small accident.” The itty–bitty thing was starting to get on my nerves. “Unfortunately it was parked at a jobsite downtown—”

“How did it get downtown?” I couldn’t imagine anyone stealing my van.

“I had it towed down there.” He nodded. “ And the strangest thing happened, a large metal beam fell on it.”

“What?” I leaned forward and white–hot pain shot down my arm.

“Your van is significantly smaller.” He was very satisfied with himself.

“How much smaller?” This was bad. Please let Bessie be okay. She’s a piece of shit, but she’s my piece of shit.

He shook his head completely unapologetic. “Ever seen what happens when you step on a loaf of bread?”

“Bessie?” I squeaked out as I put my right hand over my heart. “Bessie’s dead?”

What was I supposed to do now? I couldn’t afford another car. Hell, I couldn’t afford to have what was left of Bessie towed away.

“Who’s Bessie?” Daman looked confused.

“My van.” I felt like I was going into shock again. Where was that cute EMT when I needed him? Maybe he could scrounge up some more morphine. “Why did you have it towed downtown?”

“So a large metal beam could fall on it. Carino, you’re better off. That van was a death trap.” He patted my knee.

“But she’s
my
death trap.” Lord knows I couldn’t afford another one. Maybe Dulce’s nephew’s neighbor would sell me his stinky bean nacho Corolla for a good price. Or maybe that discount rim place we’d parked in front of for the stake out could fix me up with a car. I didn’t care if it was stolen as long as it looked legit. I was too broke to be judgmental.

“My insurance company assures me that it’s cheaper if I just write you a check.” He patted my knee again.

“What does your insurance company have to do with anything?” I wasn’t following him. If I was going to buy a stolen car, could I tell them what kind of car I wanted? Really, I was paying for it. Shouldn’t I get to choose?

“I own the building where this terrible accident happened.” He touched his breast pocket looking for something and when he didn’t find it, he felt around his trouser pockets. He pulled out a set of keys…well key fobs. “I saved us both some time and I took the liberty of picking out something for you.”

He handed them to me.

“I don’t understand.” I looked down at them. “Why is there a Porsche logo on these?”

“Because you now own a Porsche Cayenne. After Bessie’s terrible demise, I thought you should have something sportier and nicer, not to mention safer.” It was his turn at the blinding smile.

I just stared at him and trying to figure out if that was a good thing or a bad thing. I didn’t like charity, but he had killed Bessie so maybe it was okay…plus, it was a freaking Porsche.

Goodbye Bessie…hello Portia Di Glossy. I was going to have to park way at the back of the Target parking lot so no one would ding my door during the stampede to the Black Friday sales. That jogged my memory.

“Did you know that the world’s going to end on Christmas Day?” I hated to be the bearer of bad news, but he needed fair warning.

“No, I hadn’t heard that. Personally, I think the world should end on Black Friday.” Gently, he brought my hand to his mouth and kissed the back.

“That’s what I said.”

There were still so many unanswered questions. Who was Cervantes and why did he want me dead? What had happened to my ex–husband? And then there was all of that gold and money Haley, Monica, and I had stashed at TFBH. But we’d found Molly’s killer and that was enough for today. The rest could wait for tomorrow.

About the Author

Katie Graykowski is an award–winning author who likes sassy heroines, Mexican food, movies where lots of stuff gets blown up, and glitter nail polish. She lives on a hilltop outside of Austin, Texas where her home office has an excellent view of the Texas Hill Country. When she’s not writing, she’s scuba diving. Drop by her website
www.katiegraykowski.com
or send her an email at
[email protected]
.

Other books by Katie Graykowski

The Marilyns Series

Place Your Bets

Getting Lucky

The Lone Stars Series

Perfect Summer

Saving Grace

Changing Lanes

Excerpt from
Liarmouth
by Jane Myers Perrine

To be released in fall 2015

Chapter One

I’m tall, blond and gorgeous.

And I lie a lot. This huge character flaw has led to most of the woes in my life.

Actually, it’s not so much that I lie. I prefer to say I’m able to see and describe things in a more positive light than other people do. For example, some would call me a dishwater blond, but that is a kind of blond. Others might say I’m skinny and look like a beanpole, but that’s because I’m almost six feet tall and weigh one-twenty. My first—and only—husband, the one pounding on my door at this very moment, used to say I was cute. I’d prefer to be described as gorgeous because I grew up being described as cute and sweet, at least until I shot up seven inches over a few months when I was thirteen. My stepmother said she could actually see my legs growing.

So I am tall but never glamorous and never was a true blond. I tried to enhance my hair color once. The result—more neon lime green than platinum—has frightened me off further attempts.

Outside my small house in the dark, a man hammers on the door. Inside, I stop looking for my keys to check my watch. A quarter till ten. I need to be at work in fifteen minutes.

I pay no attention to the knocking because I know who it is but do continue the search. I move this morning’s newspaper from the coffee table and find the keys. Now all I have to do is figure out how to sneak out of the house without allowing the annoyingly persistent man on my porch to see me because I know exactly what he’s going to say. I don’t want to hear it. Ignoring the unpleasant is my preferred defense mechanism.

Yes, my entire life I’ve attempted to avoid unpleasantness. At the same time—this should tell you why I’m so screwed up—I’ve worked very hard on being anything but sweet and adorable. The effort to look tough is why I started smoking when I was fifteen, tried pot at eighteen and went through a short promiscuous phase in college. None of them stuck. None of them changed me. Smoking made me cough; weed made me sick. The intimacy of sharing my knobby body with another person shortened the number of times I participated. My first partner said I was clumsy. The second laughed—yes, actually laughed—at the tininess of my boobs. However, he did compliment me on my enthusiasm. The third? After he kept running his fingers over my breast area as if attempting to read very faint Braille, I shoved him away. My husband was my fourth and, by far, the best. With him, enthusiasm is—was—a big plus.

Even with my efforts to ruin my reputation and hint at a wild background, people still think I’m sweet. And cute, for a six-foot woman.

All this brings me back to my first and only and now ex-husband. Scott—never Scotty—MacBride was enough of a man for two or three marriages. Sadly, he wanted all of them at the same time. But that’s another story.

Besides, I know if I don’t open the door now, he’ll hammer until I give in. I’ve ignored his knocking for five minutes but he hasn’t let up and he won’t. That’s who Scott is.

How does he know I’m inside? Because he knows everything about me. He was a cop. His investigative skills make life with him darned uncomfortable, especially when what he knows for a fact contradicts what I prefer for him to believe. I’m so good at constructing my own reality that I hate it when other people attempt to make me face the truth. Scott has a bad habit of exactly that.

This may offer a clue as to what our marriage was like. Our difference made all our friends wonder why we got married and how it lasted for nearly two years.

“Open the door. I know you’re in there, Rosie. I saw you turn off the porch light”

Yes, Rosie’s my name. Rosie Posey. No formal name like Rosalind. No middle name. Can you imagine parents mean enough to give a child name like that? Didn’t they know I’d have to grow up with everyone laughing at me, making up mean songs about Rosie Posey? I won’t enumerate the ways children can make life miserable for a kid who starts life short and round with unruly blond—okay, light brown hair but still unruly—hair and who has my unfortunate name that rhymes so well with roly-poly. Use your imagination and triple that.

I digress. For that, I apologize but I’m a little rattled by the fact that outside stands a large enraged man pounding on the door and yelling, “Rosie! If you try to escape out the backdoor, you know I’ll find you. If I don’t, I’ll be back.”

The door shakes. I can stand it no longer. I open it.