Authors: Nancy Brophy
“Where?”
“Luray, Virginia. Twylla and Dare are already there interviewing witnesses. Standard MO. One girl missing, black limo outside the bar. Her friends can describe him. I’ve sent the photos to Twylla’s phone to get confirmation.”
“Luray? They’re having a harder time in smaller towns. Download the case file to me. I want to see if Czigany has a handle on how they are choosing the locations of their hits.”
John forked the warm cinnamon roll. The phone was quiet, but he knew Ciggy sent the information as they spoke. “Also,” he said into the receiver. “Send all the photos of the missing girls. Let’s see if we can pick up any physical similarities. Have Twylla call me with anything she finds.”
“Will do.”
John slipped the phone into his shirt pocket and raised the fork to his lips.
From the kitchen Nicholae made a choking noise. John ratcheted his head almost one hundred and twenty degrees to determine the problem. The silver-haired man stared out the window, muttering unintelligible words as he launched into action. Scrambling around the kitchen he grabbed everything out of place. Without even a glance in his direction, Nicholae snatched the plate holding the cinnamon roll from under John’s fork. In an apparent afterthought he also grabbed the fork.
Opening the oven he shoved the fork, cinnamon roll and extra pan of rolls inside and shut the door. A sharp determined rap sounded on the front door. John rose to make a quick exit with his coffee, but when Nicholae walked by he placed a strong hand on John’s shoulder and firmly pushed him back to his seat.
“Stay here,” he snarled. “Damn woman.”
Cezi’s father appeared unflappable. So it was with interest that John picked up his coffee mug and settled back into his chair. The kitchen door opened to the inside and shielded John’s view of the guest, but he could hear her voice.
“Nicholae.” The twitter made John place her at late thirties or early forties. No spring chick and yet her voice told him she was still capable of flirting. Nicholae hid his distress well. “I’ve been so worried about your family. I made some of my mushroom strudel you like so well.”
His smile managed to project both surprise and delight by the gesture, but John suspected from his earlier actions perhaps this was not an unusual occurrence. Cezi’s father was a good-looking man, widowed, successful. No matter where one lived that spelled hot catch to certain members of any society. John suspected one stood at the door now.
The woman continued talking, oblivious to the fact she hadn’t been invited inside. “The
gaje
is with you?”
John strained to hear even though she’d lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. The
gaje
had to be him.
“Do you wish me to talk to your daughter?”
“About?” Nicholae’s tone shifted from friendly to wary. His fingers gripped the door handle in a stranglehold.
“Well, you know… Outsiders. Men.” The unseen voice faltered.
“Cezi’s heart belongs to her blood.” The firmness of his tone brooked no argument. “I trust her judgment.”
“But… what about
marimé?
Gaje
have different beliefs… particularly between men and women.”
John made a mental note. This was the second time the gypsies had used the word
marimé
. He needed to understand what it represented.
Nicholae made a flippant gesture with his hand, dismissing the woman’s concerns. But John had to give the woman points when she was not prepared to let the man ignore her concerns.
“Others say he’s dangerous. Scary. His face is….”
John suspected she gestured in lieu of saying the words aloud. His fingers traced the scar tissue.
“The girl,” the woman’s voice a shade more desperate, “is unmarried. She doesn’t know men. She must be protected.”
John imagined Cezi’s reaction to such a condemning statement. She was competent as hell. It was John who needed tips on how to deal the little powder keg, not the other way around.
Somehow, Nicholae managed to send the woman on her way and get the door shut. John raised his eyebrows but buried his smile when his host walked to the refrigerator to tuck the strudel inside.
“Why hide the cinnamon rolls?”
Unlike his brother, Nicholae rarely smiled, but his dark eyes sparkled with the same mischief as his daughter. “Are you kidding? I haven’t had to cook in several years. But if Nadya saw Lyuba’s cinnamon rolls, I’d have an all-out civil war on my hands.”
He opened the oven and had barely returned the roll to the table when another knock sounded on the door. As he reached for the roll to snatch it away again, John waved him off. “I’ll wrap it to-go.”
“Good. We’ll leave as soon as possible.”
Hoping to avoid another overheard conversation, John asked, “Do you want me to wake Czigany?”
Nicholae laughed softly. “My daughter doesn’t sleep. She left for the office hours ago.”
As John heard his words, he wondered again briefly if the gypsies weren’t running a three-card monte game on him. One kept the attention focused on him while the other fleeced the gullible chumps.
In the bedroom he texted Ciggy. “Check out the Romneys. Poppy, Nicholae, Luca and Czigany. C what u can find.”
Chapter Thirteen
Cezi stood with her back to the door. Agent Stillwater had arrived. His woody scent teased her nostrils and made her mouth water. What was it about him that made her want to take a bite of him?
Even though he hadn’t entered the room further than the doorway, she was sure she could feel the warmth of his body, which was hilarious because instead of warming her, it brought a shiver.
“You left early.”
“Couldn’t sleep.” She didn’t think she was wrong to think of John as a precise man who performed every aspect of his life with purposeful resolve. So when she heard the careless slapping of his footsteps on the hardwood floors, she clamped her teeth together and forced herself to look at him.
Her morning had been arduous, but his hadn’t been any easier. He wore maroon sweatpants, two inches too short, a blue tailored shirt, and a blue and gold tie. Beige bedroom slippers flopped as he walked across the floor. Every piece of self-restraint she possessed was required to keep from laughing.
His annoyed scowl told her he knew precisely what she thought. “No stores are open yet. I had to borrow pants and shoes to come to work. Why didn’t you wake me?”
Cause she wanted to be alone. “I, uh, left early.” Even to her own ears, her lie failed to convince.
“How early?”
“Around two-thirty.”
“We didn’t go to bed till after midnight.” He had the temerity to glare at her as though accusing her of the crime of sneaking out.
It was none of his business. “I don’t sleep much.”
“Got your inhaler?”
She nodded and patted her pocket. Tenderness flooded her chest. He thought to ask about her inhaler. She smiled, but was put off when his response was to frown. Apparently, they’d hit his Mr. Nice Guy image and he didn’t want her to expect it.
“I have to use your computer. Do you have a color printer?”
She gestured toward the aging monitor sitting on the desk in the far corner. “Help yourself.”
His eyes took in her appearance from head to toe and found something lacking. Because he made a wider-than-needed circle to avoid any possible contact as he moved to sit behind the monitor. Granted she was in shorts and camisole, but they were clean.
“What’s wrong with what I have on?”
“Not a thing,” he snapped. His tone had her raising an eyebrow. How dare he be annoyed at her? She was one with cause to be mad.
Stomping over to the desk, she placed both hands palms down on the table and leaned over the ancient monitor.
“I know what ‘swing a cat’ means. It’s a spanking reference. What is it with you men and spanking threats?”
Slowly he raised his eyes, pausing midway for a long look at her breasts, then her lips. By the time his magnetic eyes met hers, a shock of electricity rattled her body. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
“If you keep flashing those perky little nipples at me, it’s going to be more than a threat.”
Cezi jumped as quickly as if the desk had burst into flame. “I am not.”
For good measure she covered her breasts with her hands. The hard points beneath her jersey top alerted her to what he’d seen. Of course, she was braless. A bra was designed to support something, but judging by the low tenor of his voice and the fire in his eyes he wasn’t looking for bodacious. A look of pure male satisfaction crossed his face.
“Several women came to visit your father today. They practically stood in line wanting to warn you about me.”
His change of subject surprised her, but she went along with it. Although she wanted another shower to wash away the tingling that tortured her. “All bringing food?” she managed to ask as she wrestled to rein her body into line.
“Yeah.”
“Those women,” she scoffed as though the word was an insult, “don’t care about me.”
“Nope. Nicholae’s playing a dangerous game. Having three women on the string is difficult for anyone, but three women who know each other screams someone’s going to die young and leave a good-looking corpse.”
“He’s not sleeping with them.”
At that comment, he raised his head. She hated that amused look. Right now, she really hated it, because her nipples pebbled even harder as though finding his charming face oh-so-delightful.
A rueful smile kicked up one corner of his mouth. “How do you know? Does he discuss his sex life with you?”
Cezi busied herself tidying papers. “Of course, not. But he’s got at least one girlfriend here in town. You know the rule. Some women are for fun and games and some are for marriage and babies.”
“Your father wants more children?”
She glanced over her shoulder to gage his reaction. His arched eyebrow made her wonder what he was thinking, but his comment didn’t give her any clues.
“No. That’s why he’s not sleeping with any of the compound women. Luca’s the same way.”
“Luca’s married.”
She really didn’t want to have this conversation with him. Luca and her father’s sex lives were none of his business. John’s affection in the tub had meant nothing. The one thing she knew for sure. Married or single, men cheat.
“And has six sons.” She referred to Luca to emphasize her point.
“How come you’re not married?” He rose to check the printer. Cezi eyed his actions over her shoulder as he replaced the plain paper with photo quality paper from the shelf above the machine.
No way were they going there. She mumbled her answer, not wanting to get into details. “Because what I want isn’t available.”
Mumbled or not, he heard her and asked, “Which is?”
She shrugged. “It’s complicated.” Change the subject before this goes further. “What are you printing?”
The printer clicked and shimmied as it cranked out page after page of photos. Her inquisitiveness nagged until she’d inched her way closer, allowing her to peer over his shoulder. “The missing girls?”
He nodded, handing her the photos already printed.
Carefully she spread each sheet containing four photos on the tables. Page after page of pretty wide-eyed blonde women rolled out. Here and there an occasional brunette or redhead, but the majority were blondes. When her table was full she double stacked, then triple stacked.
Forty-five minutes later, John came to stand behind her as she examined each girl’s face. “What do you see?”
“He like blondes.”
“No, he doesn’t. He hates young and innocent. Look at his group. Talk about homogenized. No blacks, Italians, Asians, Indians, Mexicans. Each face is the same. None of these women have the self-confidence to say no. They aren’t self-starters. You’ll never see one of these women owning a business.”
“Too young.” But she could see the distinction he made.
“Now, but unless life hardens them, these are shy, nice girls who blossom late in life, marry accountants and have three kids and a dog.”
Cezi scrutinized each photo again, trying to conceive of a life that matched the face. How many girls had she known in high school like this?
As she touched each photo, tracing a finger around the faces, John stood behind her, his breath on her cheek and the smell of coffee he’d drunk earlier gave a presence to the missing girls.
So many troubled souls. Their faint cries for help mingled until a symphony of tears and pleading roared through her mind.
She threw up her hands. “Stop.” When the screams increased, she clasped her hands to her ears to silence them.
The noise thundered down upon her drenching her with their pleas. Hundreds of young hands reached toward her, begging. “Save me. Help. Save me. Please help.” Their individual voices blended into a deafening wail.
Too many demanded her attention. The tidal waters of their need swamped her. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t save them. She couldn’t even save herself.
For the first time she was drowning in air and her asthma wasn’t the problem. The girls were doomed and taking her with them.
Warm light from above, filtered down, winding a path through the chaos that surrounded her. The glow softly descended over her and through her while sheltering her and pushing back the need and the noise. Grasping hands faded into the shadows. Over the frightful pleas came a soothing hum that vanquished the screams and the pain.
For several long minutes she basked in the safety of the radiance, the protection of the heat and the comforting drone, wrestling her demons to catch her breath and return to sanity. The humming purr separated into syllables, forming words, then thoughts.