“This was Thursday, right?” Hunter asked, receiving nods in return. “The day Logan was murdered?” More nods. “Have they found his killer?”
“We’ll get to that,” Sophie promised wryly. “Neither of us knew Logan was dead until Friday, when Marilyn—Detective Fox—interviewed us about it. We were both suspects.”
Opening his eyes wider, Hunter questioned, “They thought one of you killed him?”
“Yes, sir,” Grant confirmed. “Particularly me, since they found his, um…they found Logan at Great Lakes, where I was formerly stationed. My cousin Carlo tried to pin the murder on me.”
Sophie inhaled sharply. “That bastard!”
“Who’s Carlo?” Hunter looked confused.
“We’ll get to that too,” Sophie responded. She couldn’t believe so much had happened since the last time she’d seen her psychologist. “Right after I discovered Logan and Grant were related, I decided I didn’t want to see Grant ever again,” Sophie said. “But then I found out Logan died, and I was really worried about how Grant would take it. I snuck out of my dad’s house to attend the funeral on Sunday.”
“Thank you,” Grant said softly.
She nodded. “I’m glad I went—not only for you, but for me too. I figured it would be a way to try to get some closure after what Logan did to me.”
Hunter felt her staring at him, looking for confirmation from her therapist, and he supplied a small nod. He was too blown away by their story to act very therapeutically at the moment.
“After the funeral, my cousin Carlo, uh, Carlo Barberi, came to my apartment.” Grant glanced at Sophie with a look of shame. “He told me I had to join the family or he’d kill Sophie.”
The weight of his words hung heavily in the air between them.
Grant resumed, “Carlo took Sophie’s note from the fridge—the one with Kirsten’s address on it.”
“
That’s
how he found us!” Sophie exclaimed. “I was so stupid to write down my address.”
“
I
was so stupid to post it in plain sight,” Grant countered.
Typical post-trauma behavior, Hunter noted. So easy to second-guess after the fact. “Carlo came to Kirsten’s?” he prompted.
Sophie nodded. “He held a gun on Kirsten and me, demanding the money I’d turned over to the police. He wanted me to go to my dad to get it.”
Hunter had the sense they were nearing the part of the story that explained Sophie’s sling.
Grant seemed too tense to speak, so Sophie continued. “Grant showed up, and Carlo was yelling at him to get on his knees, but he wouldn’t do it, and then suddenly I knew.”
“You knew what?” Hunter was captivated.
“I knew Carlo was Logan’s killer.”
“He
was?”
Grant suddenly found his voice. “He was. He tried to deny it, but I could see it on his face.” His clear blue eyes darkened. “I wanted to rip him apart, and I started toward him when he…” Grant gulped “…he shot Sophie.”
Hunter sat back in his chair, trying to absorb this incredible story.
Sophie watched his reaction carefully. “I’ll be okay, though,” she offered. “I get out of the sling in a couple of weeks, before classes start at DePaul. I should be okay to teach.”
Wanting to ask what in the world it felt like to be shot, Hunter was stymied when Grant jumped in to carry on the story.
“After Carlo shot Sophie, he, uh, got me down on the floor.”
I was just waiting for him to kill me.
“Kirsten made a diversion, and I, um, I tackled Carlo. We wrestled for the gun…and…and it went off. I shot him.” His voice lowered to barely above a whisper. “I killed him.”
Recognizing the far-off look of dissociation, Hunter was pretty sure the man on the sofa was experiencing an acute stress reaction, possibly post-traumatic stress disorder. Grant surely needed his help.
“He saved my life,” Sophie said, patting her boyfriend’s long leg. Her touch appeared to bring Grant back to the present, and he gave her a mournful look. “They arrested him,” she added grimly, “but it was obviously self-defense so they settled on an additional year of parole.”
“An additional year of counseling, looks like,” Grant said, not looking forward to the prospect in the least.
Hunter sighed loudly and tried to make sense of the multitude of thoughts careening in his brain. “How do you know your family won’t pursue you again?”
“Uncle Joe talked to Uncle Angelo, and he promised not to come after me.”
“Do you really trust the word of
Angelo Barberi?”
The media footage of a triumphant Angelo exiting the courthouse, cleared of extortion charges by his high-priced attorneys, flashed through Hunter’s mind.
“I don’t know Uncle Angelo all that well,” Grant admitted. “But he’s my father’s brother, and my father supposedly always keeps his word. That’s how he rose to Don.”
There was a silence in the room before Hunter muttered, “Hmm, I don’t know about this.”
Sophie and Grant warily watched Hunter struggle with the decision—their time was almost up.
“One thing I told Grant,” Sophie said, taking his hand in hers once again, “is the reason I didn’t figure out that he and Logan were brothers. Although they looked alike, there’s
no
similarity in what kind of men they were on the inside.”
Sophie paused, thinking about what Grant had revealed: Logan hadn’t known that hiding guns and money in her office had led to such trouble for her. Maybe Logan wasn’t the evil character she’d made him out to be.
Shaking these thoughts out of her head, Sophie returned to her argument. “Grant’s a good man, Hunter, and I know you’ll discover that too if you see us for couples counseling.”
Thinking of Sophie’s history with inappropriate partners—bad boys and older men—Hunter gazed suspiciously at Grant.
Was
he running a con on her? She was obviously infatuated with the dark-haired Italian next to her, despite what she risked simply by being with him. Hunter decided then and there to take them on as a couple. It would be the only way to keep an eye on potential evildoings of the Barberi clan—the only way to keep Sophie safe. What was the saying?
Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
Hunter felt a tendril of unease crawl up his spine. This Mafia family was already infiltrating his thoughts.
“I’ll give it a try,” Hunter pledged. “But if I believe my objectivity’s compromised in any way, I’ll have to refer you to another psychologist.”
“That’s fair.” Sophie nodded gratefully. “See you next week?”
“See you then,” Hunter said as they all stood.
“Thank you, Dr. Hayes.”
Shaking Grant’s hand, Hunter dared to look into those arresting eyes, which appeared just as compelling as they had at first glance. The psychologist was in for quite a ride with these two. He could feel it already.
A sense of calm settled over Grant once he caught a glimpse of the gleaming ship swaying gently near the docks of the Chicago River. Therapy, emotions, secrets, family—he had no idea how to deal with all of that, but ships…well, ships he could handle. The architectural cruise was his livelihood, his home.
Swinging his lanky body onto the deck, Grant surveyed the bar area amidships, grinning as he remembered Sophie serving drinks there all summer long. Now he missed her, but he had no one to blame but himself. He’d been the one to help her secure a teaching job in DePaul University’s psychology department, and he couldn’t deny how incredibly delighted she’d been upon taking the position. That look of joy was all he needed. He’d do anything to have that glowing excitement cross her features again. His singular focus now was performing kind, caring acts for the woman he loved. Her smile had replaced the need for screaming Navy superiors or grumpy bosses to compel him into action.
And where
was
his grumpy boss? By this time of the morning, Roger was typically cracking the whip over Grant’s nephew, Ben, the newest employee of Eaton Architectural Cruises. But the two were nowhere to be found. Shrugging, Grant decided to clean his work station. He leaped up the stairs to the bridge and then froze, shocked by the scene in front of him.
Roger was eating the biggest piece of deep-dish pizza known to humankind. The short, fat, foul-mouthed captain—supposedly on a diet after his heart attack earlier that summer—shoveled in the thick, greasy mass hungrily, swiftly, furtively. His jaws moved like a jackhammer, tearing into the cheese and crust like a lion snapping off a gazelle’s leg.
“Step. Away. From. The Pizza,” Grant ordered in a deep voice.
Roger halted mid-chew and stared up at his employee with a look of sheer mortification. “Mahdschten,” he mumbled guiltily, trying to swallow a massive wad of cheese.
“Rog!” Grant chided. “What the hell are you doing, sir? You’re ruining your diet! You can’t eat that stuff!”
Eyeing the open pizza box and dismayed to find the pieces already half-gone, Grant waited for his boss to gulp down his most recent bite.
Finally Roger could speak, and Grant tried to ignore the small piece of tomato wedged between his boss’s two front teeth. “Don’t tell Joe?”
The surly man’s meek plea and flushed cheeks surprised his employee.
“Joe?” Grant was confused. “I can’t tell him—he’s probably out to sea by now.” His uncle had returned to Norfolk to resume his duties on the USS Mahan. “Why do you care if Joe knows you’re eating pizza?”
“He was so stoked about my weight loss. He was really impressed. I just want him, you know, to be…proud of me. It’s stupid.”
Grant felt a stab of sympathy for his boss. He knew all too well the desire to make Joe Madsen proud. Ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach as he remembered how thoroughly
he
’d disappointed his uncle, Grant asked, “What happened? You were doing so well eating vegetables.”
“Fucking carrots,” Roger muttered.
Grant stifled a grin. “You don’t love Ms. Broccoli anymore?”
“Ms. Broccoli is a bitch.”
Grant’s grin widened. Taking a sly step toward the calorie-laden pizza pie, he suggested, “How ’bout I remove the temptation?”
Roger instantly huddled over the box like a hyena protecting its meal, eyeing Grant suspiciously.
“I know one starving teenager who could finish it off for you,” Grant added.
At this Roger sat up. “Where is that fucking kid? I haven’t seen him all morning.”
Grant frowned. His therapy appointment had made him later than usual, and Ben should’ve been there by now. “I’ll go look for him.” Biting his lip, he gestured toward the pizza box. “May I?”
Sighing, Roger waved his hand dismissively. “Take it,” he grumbled, clutching his stomach. “My gut’s about to explode now anyway. How the hell did I eat this shit every day?”
Grasping the box, Grant stealthily moved away. Remembering what it had been like to work side by side with Rog during those early summer days when pizza was a major staple of his diet, Grant grimly predicted that the bridge would smell quite fragrant later today. And it wouldn’t be aromatic river scents either.
After a thorough search of the ship, Grant was concerned enough to head to the office to call Ben’s mother, Ashley, when he stopped short on the docks. He detected a sweet smell—one that made him think immediately of Logan. He was flooded by the memory of his brother’s brawny arms clutching him tight, and suddenly he was back at their mother’s funeral. He’d been twelve years old, and Logan’s jacket had smelled of sweet smoke, the exact scent greeting Grant’s nose now. Shaking his head a few times to clear it, Grant walked toward the corner of the building to investigate.
He rounded the corner and pursed his lips disapprovingly. As expected, he found the source of the smell: some teenager smoking a joint. The boy exhaled a puff of smoke, and when the haze cleared, Grant gaped.
“Ben!” he snapped.
The teenager’s unfocused eyes widened once he noticed his uncle glaring at him. He swiftly dropped the joint and tried to appear angelic.
“Yo, Uncle Grant,” he rasped, stomping on the tossed-aside roach. Grant stared at him, slack-jawed. “Don’t, um, don’t tell Mom or Joe, ’kay?”
This was the second person in five minutes to beg him not to rat out their misbehavior to his uncle.
“What does Joe have to do with this?” Grant asked, again.
“He didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
Ben was taken aback. Great Uncle Joe had turned out to be pretty cool after all. He’d kept quiet about catching Ben with marijuana once before. “Nothin’.”
A crease formed on Grant’s forehead. “You—you can’t smoke pot on the job, Ben! Mr. Eaton will fire you if he catches you.”
“So?” Ben challenged, defiantly jutting out his jaw. “This job sucks balls anyway.”
Grant felt his face flush with sudden anger. How dare this sixteen-year-old give him punk attitude? Joe had taken a risk by securing him job, just like he had with Grant, and Ben showed total disrespect. Trying to keep his voice even, Grant asked, “You
want
to get fired, then?”
Ben folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t care.”
Grant studied his nephew. Despite his feigned nonchalance, the boy’s voice warbled with emotion, and it seemed like he
did
care. Calling his bluff, Grant extended his arm, beckoning him with a curl of his fingers. “C’mon, then. Let’s go tell our boss you quit.”
Ben’s eyes flashed worry. “Um, maybe not right this second? Maybe I’ll quit later.”
“Ben, what’s going on? Do you want this job or not? Because
if
you want it, you’re not doing a good job of showing it.”
Hearing his uncle’s disappointment, the boy felt a tightening in his stomach.
I
don’t
care, damn it!
He’d hoped that, of all people, his uncle would understand him, but Grant was all up in his grill just like the other adults. Nobody understood him; he was entirely alone. His bottom lip trembled though he remained silent.
Grant observed emotions swirling like wispy clouds in the teenager’s sky blue eyes, and he wished he could help him. Sighing, he crossed in front of Ben and leaned his back against the brick wall, standing quietly beside the boy.
“You know what I thought of when I smelled pot from around the corner?”
Ben’s sullen expression showed a hint of intrigue. “What?”
Grant looked down. “Your dad.”
The younger Barberi’s breath hitched; the stinging loss of his father was still quite raw.
Grant continued. “He used to smoke a lot when he was your age.” His lips pressed together. “Uncle Joe was really mad at Uncle Angelo for not stopping Logan—for not getting him some help. And then Logan got busted for selling drugs, and he went to juvie. He was just a little older than you are now.”
The warning in his words wasn’t lost on Ben, and he cautiously asked, “What’s juvie like?”
Rubbing his jaw thoughtfully, Grant ventured, “Probably not much better than adult prison, Ben.” He sighed. “I think…well, I think juvie made your dad kind of…hard. He changed. He…” A slight tremor entered his voice. “I miss the old Logan, you know? I don’t want that to happen to you.”
Ben’s eyes filled with tears that he furiously blinked away. He felt a throbbing ache any time there was mention of his father, and he hated that internal weakness. With thoughts of funerals, juvie, and prison floating in his mind, he asked, “Uncle Grant? Um, Carlo said…Carlo said that you, um, you went crazy in prison?”
Grant clenched his jaw, furious to hear the name of Logan’s killer, then averted his eyes. He hadn’t talked about his shameful descent into madness with anyone, and he rued his nephew’s directness. After studying his hands for a few moments, he quietly admitted, “Yeah. I did.” Feeling the palpable heaviness between them, Grant gave a long sigh.
“So I have a whack-job uncle?”
A slight grin tugged at the corner of Grant’s mouth. “Something like that.”
Spurred on by his uncle’s confession, Ben’s expression turned serious. “Uncle Grant? Um, actually I can’t quit this job.”
“You can’t quit?”
Ben sniffed. “Mom and Joe told me I have to work on the boat and stay away from weed, or I gotta go to rehab.”
“Joe caught you smoking?”
“Yeah.”
Considering their deal, Grant asked, “So then I guess you need to go to rehab now?”
“No! I won’t go. Don’t tell Mom or Joe—I won’t smoke again, I promise.”
“Ben—” Grant’s voice rose with reproach.
“Please, Uncle Grant? Please don’t tell. There’s no way I’ll turn out like my dad—
I’m
not gonna get caught.”
Grant grimaced. “Nobody
plans
on getting caught, Ben. I certainly didn’t plan on getting busted, and your dad didn’t plan on going to juvie or running into Carlo…” His voice trailed off, and neither of them wanted him to finish the statement. Grant felt a pang of guilt for badmouthing his deceased brother.
“Listen, Ben, I don’t want you using drugs or going to prison or getting involved with the family. But I
do
want you to be tough, strong, and smart. I do want you to…to try to take care of others.” His voice softened. “Like your dad.”
Ben blinked quickly, surprised by his uncle’s words. “I didn’t think you and Dad got along.”
“We didn’t. He screwed things up for me,” Grant rasped. “But it’s not that simple, you know? Sometimes I’m still really mad at him, but sometimes…”
He was quiet for a moment, pensive, feeling a small spark of hope. Although he’d forever lost the opportunity to know his brother, perhaps he still had a chance to know and love his brother’s son.
“Are you gonna tell about the weed?” Ben prompted.
Deliberating for a moment, Grant aimed a stern look in his direction. “I need to think about it. It depends on how well you do at work these next few weeks. No slacking, Ben. I mean it.”
Grant was surprised when Ben squared his shoulders and nodded. “Okay.”
Grant gestured to the river. “We better get back to the ship.”
He followed his nephew to the deck, where they ran into Roger emerging from the bathroom. Glaring at Ben, Roger shouted, “You’re late! Where the hell have you been?”
Taking a step back, Ben stammered, “I—I—”
“We’re sorry we’re late, sir,” Grant said, rescuing the red-faced teen.
“The passengers will start arriving in twenty fucking minutes!” Roger raged. “And the bathrooms look like shit!”
Ben’s eyes widened, and Grant offered, “I’ll help Ben clean them, okay, sir?”
The boss eyed the two suspiciously and grumbled, “Get to it, then.”
“Yes, sir.” Grant hustled to the supply closet, and since Ben didn’t want to be left alone with his enraged, roly-poly boss, he scampered after him.
While Ben was mopping the women’s head, he asked, “Why do you call Rog ‘sir’?”
Grant paused his wiping down the sinks, sponge suspended in midair. “Because he’s the boss.”
“Does he make you call him that?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
Grant sighed and nodded to the mop. Ben took the hint and resumed his duty while Grant explained.
“I guess it goes back to Uncle Joe,” he said. “He’s in the Navy, you know, and I grew up on a military base. Some Navy dads make their kids address all adults as ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’ but Joe was never like that. He said I should only address superiors as ‘sir’ if I respected them. It’s a sign of respect. Once I joined the Navy, it just sort of became natural to address everyone that way.”
Grant rinsed the sponge and continued cleaning. “Maybe I call him ‘sir’ out of habit now, though I do respect Mr. Eaton. I know he can be grumpy, but he’s a good guy. He helped me a lot after I got out of prison.”
Wringing out the mop, Ben said, “He was kinda mad. Is he gonna fire me?”
“Nah,” Grant assured him. “He’ll calm down. Give him a few minutes. He’s just cranky because he’s on a diet.”
They cleaned for a bit longer and then Ben commented, “Man, I’m starved. When’s our lunch break?”
A faint smile lit up Grant’s face. “Oh, I forgot to tell you—I got some pizza for us later.”
“Score! Did you call Gino’s?”
“No, I’m not supposed to use the office phone for personal calls.”
Ben stared at him curiously. “That’s what cell phones are for, dude.”
Grant shrugged. “I don’t have a cell phone.”
“What?” Ben was flabbergasted. “You don’t have a cell?” He shook his head disdainfully. “We gotta hook you up, Uncle Grant.”
***
Sophie smiled as she put the finishing touches on her teaching syllabus and then heard the satisfying sound of the printer rolling out the completed document. Typing one-handed with the hunt-and-peck method was rather cumbersome, but she’d finally finished her plans for the
Theories of Personality
class she’d taken over from Dr. Anita Green. Sophie’s advisor was overseas on a consulting project, leaving the former-student-turned-parolee to fill in as visiting instructor. Sophie had borrowed liberally from Anita’s old syllabus, but she’d inserted a few creative changes of her own. She hoped her students would enjoy the additions.