"That's a lousy pick-up line. Even in a bar."
"Then it's a good thing we're not in a bar."
"And if you really are a detective like you claim to be, you'd realize that if I came here often, I'd know the museum isn't open on Saturdays."
"But I only come in on Saturdays. That means if you came here often and you knew the museum was closed on Saturdays, we never would have had a chance to meet and then you wouldn't be about to give me your phone number."
"The same one I gave Frank at the security desk?"
Quinn laughed. It was a deep, rich sound, and it sent a little tremor up my spine and across my shoulders. Like champagne bubbles.
"Frank's a moron," he said. "He's sitting out there as happy as a clam, thinking about how he's going to romance you with a shot and a beer and. get you in the sack right after. It will take him forever and a day before he figures out he's been conned. I, on the other hand, can smell a dodge a mile away. Just so you know… " His smile inched up a bit. Dazzling enough to blind even a levelheaded woman.
And no one had ever accused me of being levelheaded.
Quinn moved in close enough for me to smell his aftershave. It wasFlavio , the same fragrance Joel always wore.
I tried not to hold it against him.
"Just so you know what a good judge of character I am, I can tell that a shot and a beer isn't your style,"
he said andFlavio notwithstanding, Quinn's voice, deep and resonant, made me forget that JoelPanhorst had ever existed. "So I'm thinkingPietro's . You know, that new place in the Warehouse District. I hear they've got a reservation list a mile long but… well… " Just like he didn't do apologies, he didn't do modest, either. He tried for sheepish and only ended up looking hotter than ever. "I've got a few connections. I'm pretty sure we could get a window table some night soon. So what do you think?
Candlelight. Wine. White tablecloths and flowers. And did I mention the candlelight?"
He did, and just thinking about studying the planes and ridges of Quinn's face in the light of a flickering candle made me weak in the knees.
I stayed strong. "I'll check my social calendar," I told him.
Quinn chuckled. "Don't check. Just say yes."
"Yes."
Okay, so I crumbled. Who could blame me? As hunks went, this one was on top of the food chain. Plus he hadn't said one word about my brain.
What woman could resist?
"So tell me, Pepper Martin, what brings you to our little depository of things nobody cares about?"
"One of the things nobody cares about." I pointed to the pictures of Gus. "Him."
Quinn pursed his lips, considering. "Scarpetti? I've heard stories about him around the station. Some of the older cops remember him."
"And what do they say about—" I sounded too anxious, and I knew it. I reined myself in and tried for the cool composure that always worked better than too fast, too hot, and too heavy.
Except in the bedroom.
"I work at the cemetery whereScarpetti is buried. I give the tours and the more I can find out about our residents—"
This time when Quinn's eyebrows slid up, it was in surprise. "Residents?"
Heat shot through my cheeks. "I've been hanging around Ella too long. She's my boss. That's what she calls them. Anyway, the more I know, the more I can tell our visitors. I heard there was an exhibit here about Gus…er …Scarpetti . I thought if I stopped down, I might be able to find out some things that other people don't know."
Quinn scraped a hand through his hair. One strand refused to be corralled, and it hung over his forehead like an inky question mark. It took more self-control than I knew I had not to reach up and smooth it into place. "Can't help you there," he said, and he sounded honestly disappointed. "From what I've heard, Scarpetti was an ornery son of a bitch and my buddies over in Organized Crime say his son has continued the family tradition in grand style. But personally, I don't know anything about these old mobbed-up types. I have heard Larry, the collections manager, say he's got a stash of stuff about Scarpetti in the storage room. He claims that if the museum ever gets enough funding for more space, he could double the size of this display."
I didn't care much about the museum doubling in size. Not as much as I did about that one word: stash.
Though I suspected he encountered it so much he was immune, I batted my eyelashes at Quinn. "I don't suppose you'd consider—"
"Maybe if you ask really nice."
He was taller than me—always a big plus—and I scooted close enough so that I had to look up into his eyes. They were as green as spring oak leaves, shot through with a color that reminded me of amber.
When I asked really nice, it wasn't hard to sound head over heels. Heck, I already was.
"Please."
I knew he'd cave. Guys always did. "Let me lock the door so Frank doesn't send any more pretty women in here," Quinn said and he did just that. "The storage room is out the back door of the museum and down the hall and I think I know where Larry keeps the key."
On his way from the front door, he grabbed my hand and tugged me along with him.
Suddenly, I wasn't so cold anymore.
It's not easy to own up to my weaknesses. But hey, I've already admitted that I talk to a dead guy. I shouldn't be embarrassed (at least not too much) to confess that I know exactly what would have happened with Quinn in that cramped storage room if we hadn't found two middle-aged volunteers in there sorting through mountains of stuff. Damn it.
The good news is that Quinn looked just as disappointed to see that we had company as I felt. A spark in his eyes that mirrored the fire that threatened me with self-combustion, he shrugged his regret, gave me a grin that promised
another time
, and let go of my hand. The last I saw of him, he was headed down a long aisle where cardboard boxes Were stacked one on top of the other in a precarious version of organization.
Every inch of me tingling as if I'd touched electricity, I waited for Quinn to return, nodding hello when the volunteer couple sidled by with piles of newspapers in their arms. They staked out the only desk in the room and got down to work, which meant that when Quinn finally came back carrying a roll of paper towels and a battered box labeledScarpetti , we had no choice but to drag two wobbly metal chairs over to one corner and set the box on the floor between us.
Not much room to move much less work, but the tight quarters had advantages. Quinn ripped a paper towel from the roll and leaned over to wipe an inch-thick layer of dust off the top of the box. His knees touched mine.
It wasn't much, but the contact sent a shiver of anticipation through me.
Maybe that's why my breath was tight in my chest as I watched him open the box. Or maybe it was because now that I found myself so close to information that might explain so much about Gus, my heartbeat sped up a couple dozen beats and my palms itched. I scraped them against my pant legs, craned my neck, and bent over the box. "What's inside?"
"Newspaper articles." Quinn reached in and pulled out a stack of old newspapers that matched the ones in the cemetery archives. Down to the coating of mold.
II sneezed and reached into my purse for a tissue.
Quinn dug deeper into the cardboard box. "More photographs like the ones in the museum display." He took them out and set them on the a floor, and once again, I found myself face-to-face with the young GusScarpetti . Dead Gus wasn't a handsome man, but even when he was young and alive, he was nothing to write home about. Beefy neck. Prominent nose. Piercing eyes that glared at the camera as if he was daring it and anyone brave enough to look at his picture to come and get a piece of him.
"What?" The sound of Quinn's voice snapped me out of my thoughts, and I looked up to find him studying me, his head cocked to one side. "You're looking at the guy like you know him."
"Me?Scarpetti was dead before I was born." I laughed and wondered if Quinn noticed that I relayed the fact and sidestepped his comment at the same time. "I was just thinking. That's all. About looking at the face of a guy who has a mausoleum over at the cemetery."
And about how one bright and sunny afternoon, GusScarpetti stepped out of that mausoleum and into my life.
The now-familiar chill came back in spades and before I even realized I was doing it, I found myself with my arms crossed over my chest.
"Cold?"
Quinn's question was innocent enough. His expression was anything but. I could practically see the wheels turning inside his head. I didn't need him to figure out that I had more than just a professional interest in Gus's life.
"Just a chill." To prove my point, I sniffed into my tissue. "I've been a little under the weather."
He grinned. "Glad you warned me before we exchanged any germs."
"I'll let you know when it's safe to get close again," I promised, and he got back to work, bending over the cardboard box and fishing around inside.
He came up holding a stack of yellowed papers that he set on his lap so he could riffle through them.
"Arrest records. Witness statements." He laid them aside and reached into the box again. This time, he pulled out a folder. It was once manila-colored but by then, it was a shade that reminded me of the caramel they used as the not-so-secret ingredient in the tiramisu at the coffee shop downstairs from my apartment. "There's even a copy ofScarpetti's autopsy report in here."
For reasons I can't explain and are probably way too close to deranged to even think about, there was something about reading the cold, hard facts of Gus's death that fascinated me. Before Quinn could offer it, I snatched the autopsy report out of his hand.
"Cold hard facts" doesn't begin to describe what I found inside the folder. At the top of the first page was a case number, along with Gus's name and the date and time of his death.
No big news there.
I also found out how tall he was, how much he weighed, and that when he went to Lucia's for veal parmigiana and ended up kicking the bucket, he was suitably attired in a gray suit, white shirt, black and red silk tie, white jockey shorts, black socks, and alligator shoes. All custom made, I was sure, and as flashy as what he'd been buried in.
I didn't care how much Gus's brain, his heart, and the rest of his internal organs weighed so I zipped past that info and on to a section titled Evidence of Injury. The information here confirmed what I'd read in the newspaper articles. All told, Gus had sustained sixteen bullet wounds. The autopsy report described each and every one in its own paragraph, complete with long medical words I didn't know and didn't really want to understand. None of that mattered. What was important was the last line of a couple of the descriptions: "This is a fatal wound."
It wasn't like I didn't know that Gus was dead, but just reading the words, detached and clinical, made my insides bunch. Before my gag reflex could get the best of me, I leafed past the anatomical data.
A good plan.
If I hadn't found myself staring at the autopsy photos.
Looking at the pictures of Gus cut open and laid out on a surgical table made my stomach do a flip-flop.
I shuffled through the pictures as quickly as I could, and I would have kept right on shuffling if one photo in particular hadn't caught my eye.
One of the wounds listed as "unfatal" was to Gus's right thigh and the photo showed it in detail. But it wasn't the bruised flesh around the bullet hole that caught my eye and held me spellbound.
It was the red mark on Gus's right hip. The one that was about the size of a quarter and shaped like a rose.
"Hey, you look a little green." Quinn plucked the folder out of my hand. "Not everybody's cut out to look at this stuff and not get queasy. You okay?"
Was I? Not if okay involved finding the irrefutable evidence Gus had displayed the first day I met him.
A birthmark.
One I couldn't have dreamed up, no matter how warped my imagination might be.
I promised myself that when I got home, I'd scream. Or cry. Or whatever you were supposed to do when you discovered that something you knew couldn't possibly be true really was.
For now, I had a handsome detective to deal with.
I cringed, looking at the autopsy folder he still held in one hand. A shiver snaked up my spine. "How can anybody get used to looking at dead bodies?"
He shrugged. "You get used to it."
"You? Does that mean—"
"I'm in Homicide," he said. "All it takes is a couple weeks on the job and a couple of shootings. After that, all the bodies, they pretty much look alike."
His assessment was just as clinical as that of Gus's autopsy report. But I didn't hold it against him.
Something told me it was the only way professionals were able to deal with a daily dose of death and not lose their marbles.
An idea popped into my head. "Homicide, huh? So tell me, if this was your case, how would you investigate?"
"If this was my case, I'd still be sitting here doing nothing." There was no mistaking the sudden sting of bitterness in Quinn's words or that he regretted it instantly.
"Sorry." This time, I knew he was. Not for getting angry. For letting it show. He was sorry he'd lost control and let me get a glimpse of his vulnerability. Just as sorry as he was that now that he'd mentioned it, he had to explain himself.
"I'm not exactly on the job at the moment," he said. "Administrative leave."
"You did something you shouldn't have done."
"Oh no!" Quinn's eyes sparked with defiance. "I did something I
should have
done. I just shouldn't have gotten caught."
"Which explains why you're trying to get back into your lieutenant's good graces."
"You got that right."
"Is it working?"
"God, I hope so." He got up from his chair, and if there had been a little more room than none, I think he would have paced like a caged lion. "I'm as bored as hell."
It wasn't fair but, hey, how often did I have the advantage of professional input? I used Quinn's confession to my advantage. "So indulge me," I said. "Pretend it all just happened and that it's your case.