Authors: Sandra Brown
Farnum’s face tightened. “Not at all. Right after you tell me what you and your wife did in bed last night.”
“I’m divorced.”
“All right then. You and your girlfriend. You and your plastic blow-up doll. Whatever.”
“You’ve made your point.” Morelli pressed his fingers against his temples. “Look—”
“Major Morelli,” Farnum said. “I’ve lost the only woman I’ve ever loved. I am not in the mood for games. If you have something you want to tell me—then tell me.”
Morelli slowly exhaled. “The only woman you’ve ever loved…”
“Yes?”
“She’s a man.”
Farnum’s reaction could not have been much different had Morelli hit him in the face with a brick. Many moments passed before he whispered, “What?”
“It’s true. The coroner confirmed it. She’s a man.”
“But—this isn’t possible.”
“I’m afraid it is. You have to understand—there are a lot of drag queens out on the Peoria strip. I’ve heard some of the boys in Vice say one person in five in those clubs is a cross-dresser.”
“I’ve had drag queens in my club since the day it opened. No matter how good they were, I could always tell the difference.”
“Well, I guess this one fooled even you.”
“But it’s just so…impossible. I can’t—I can’t—” And then, all at once, Farnum’s expression altered dramatically. He laughed.
This was even more perplexing than everything else that had happened tonight. “I’m sorry,” Morelli said, “is something funny?”
“It’s all just so…so…” Farnum wiped away the tears crystallizing in the corners of his eyes. “No, not funny exactly. More like ironic.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”
“Irony. The juxtaposition of unexpected circumstances—”
“I know what irony is,” Morelli growled. “What I don’t understand is why it’s ironic that your girlfriend turns out to be a man.”
With a quick, fluid motion, Farnum untucked his shirt and pulled it up, exposing the tight binding wrapped around his upper abdomen. “Because I’m really a woman.”
* * *
Two hours later, Morelli cradled a foam cup filled with hot black coffee while the forensic teams did their work. There was something comforting about the feel of the coffee. It might not be much, but at least you knew what it was. Exactly what you thought it was.
Baxter came in and poured herself a cup. “What’s the word from headquarters?”
“DeCarlo flat out denied that he ordered Bartello to make the hit,” Morelli replied.
“Does that surprise you?”
“Actually it does. I thought he would call his lawyer and refuse to talk.”
“Apparently he fired his mouthpiece. Maybe you should send over that lawyer buddy of yours.”
“No point. Ever since his wife had those twin girls, he can’t finish a sentence that doesn’t have ‘goo-goo’ in it.” Morelli held the coffee under his nose, drawing in the rich Kona aroma. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. Prescott is picking up Bartello and bringing him here. My informants tell me DeCarlo had a big falling-out with Bart the Dart earlier this week. Don’t know why, but DeCarlo totally cut him off. Bart’s been coming around to his place every night, trying to worm his way back into favor. But so far, no luck.”
“So even if DeCarlo was behind the hit, he wouldn’t have used the Dartman.”
“Looks that way.”
“I still want to talk to him.”
“Figured as much. But aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What’s that?”
“You said it yourself—if DeCarlo was out to get Farnum, he would’ve gone after Farnum. He wouldn’t have gone after Farnum’s girlfriend. Boyfriend. Whatever.”
“That’s a problem.” He polished off his coffee. “Thanks for the background info. I can always count on you to come up with the goods.”
“Should I be reading in between the lines here?”
“No. Just saying I know I can count on you. That’s why I like having you for a…partner.”
“I thought it was my stunning good looks.”
“That, too.”
* * *
A few minutes later, Morelli’s nemesis-in-homicide, Major Prescott, arrived at the penthouse apartment bearing Ernie Bartello, aka Bart the Dart. Prescott had a grudge against Morelli that went back years. Prescott had been removed from a high-profile murder investigation and Morelli had taken over. Worse, he’d had the audacity to solve the case. Prescott had never forgiven him.
They put Bartello in a separate bedroom, away from Farnum and the crime scene. Prescott motioned Morelli aside for a few preinterrogation words.
“So lemme see if I’ve got this straight,” Prescott said. “Masters was really a man, all dolled up like a woman.”
“Right.”
“And he-she was sleeping with Farnum, who was a woman made up like a man.”
“So it seems.”
“And neither one knew that their love mate was not what they looked to be.”
“That also appears to be the case.”
“They were both pretending to be what the other one really was.”
“By George, I think you’ve got it.”
“What the hell did they do with each other
?
”
Morelli didn’t know if Prescott was being rhetorical, or if he really expected an answer. “I think…they loved one another. Very much.”
“Jeez, what is the world coming to?” Prescott muttered. “Disgusting.”
“It’s not disgusting,” Morelli replied. “It’s sad.”
“Sad? Those sick perverts?” Prescott grimaced. “I think you must be sick, too.”
Morelli did not reply. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a suspect to interrogate.”
* * *
Bartello was a thin man, wiry and tough, exactly the sort of person no one would want to meet alone unless they were packing a two-megaton rocket launcher. Probably not even then. The Grim Reaper tattoo on his forearm and the small but discernible scar on the left side of his face lent two strong clues to his chosen profession.
Morelli was the good cop while Prescott played the bad. Typecasting, Morelli thought, although Prescott might not see it that way.
“What do you know about this murder, Bartello?”
“Nothin’.”
“Did you hit Kim Masters?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Did DeCarlo order you to do it?”
“DeCarlo? Who’s that?”
Morelli tried not to clench his teeth. “I want the truth.”
“Call the psychic hotline.”
“This job looks like your handiwork.”
Bartello shrugged. “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”
Prescott lurched forward and grabbed the man’s collar. “Don’t screw with us, Bartello. Or so help me—”
Morelli shook his head. Prescott was so bad at this. Like the man was going to be scared enough to break after twenty seconds of softball questions. “Let’s calm down, everybody. We’re just having a conversation, okay?” He nudged Prescott out of the way. “Bartello, did you know your buddy DeCarlo was bearing a half-million-dollar grudge?”
“DeCarlo ain’t my buddy. I don’t work for him no more.”
“You know, I heard a rumor to that effect. What’d you do to tick off the boss man?”
“I didn’t do nothin’. He’s got no business treatin’ me like this.”
“There must’ve been something.”
“It was just one date.”
Morelli eased back. “One date with whom?”
Bartello’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Sophia.”
“Sophia DeCarlo? The boss’s daughter?”
“And what’s wrong with that? It ain’t like I forced her or nothin’. Hell, all I did was kiss her good-night.”
“The boss caught you sucking face with his only daughter and he didn’t like it. So he sent you away before things got out of control.”
“The man was not rational.”
“Because he didn’t want his pride and joy hooked up with a two-bit hit man? Imagine.”
“He’s happy enough to have me around when he needs work done.”
“You just don’t get it, do you, Bartello? That’s how all the DeCarlos in this world are. When they can use you, they’ll use you. But it doesn’t mean they like you. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean you have the slightest chance of making it with his daughter.”
“May I go now?”
“What happened tonight when you went to DeCarlo’s place?”
“Nothin’.”
“Did he give you an assignment?”
“No.”
Unfortunately, Morelli got the distinct impression he was telling the truth. “Did he mention Terry Farnum?”
Bartello answered with a shoulder shrug. “Yeah. He was ravin’. Shoutin’. On and on. Talkin’ about how Farnum had taken his money and wasn’t payin’ him back. ‘This woman has made me a laughingstock,’ he kept sayin’. ‘I won’t tolerate this. I’m Albert DeCarlo!’ But he didn’t ask me to do it. No, he wouldn’t lower himself to deal with the likes of me anymore.”
“So you were—” Morelli snapped his fingers. “Becket.”
Prescott’s head swiveled around. “What?”
“Thomas Becket. The Archbishop of Canterbury. Buddied around with Henry II.”
“Look,
Jeopardy
boy, show off some other—”
“Henry and Becket had a falling-out. Classic conflicts between church and state, each trying to maintain as much power as possible. Henry couldn’t have the Archbishop of Canterbury axed, so he endured the aggravation. One night, though, when he’d had a bit too much mead, he cried out, ‘Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?’ He was probably just blowing off steam. But four of his knights heard the remark and decided to get in the king’s good graces by offing the archbishop. Which they did. On hallowed ground.”
“And this has something to do with Albert DeCarlo?” Prescott asked.
“Of course. DeCarlo didn’t lie. He didn’t order Bartello or anyone else to make the hit. But when he screamed, ‘This woman has made me a laughingstock,’ a lot of people were listening.” He turned his head. “Including Bart here, who was desperate to worm his way back into his boss’s favor.”
“But you said DeCarlo wouldn’t go after Farnum’s girlfriend.”
“Don’t you see? Terry can be a man or a woman’s name. So can Kim. DeCarlo had known Farnum for years. He knew Farnum was really a she. But Bart didn’t. So he came over here to kill ‘this woman—’”
“And he thought Kim Masters was the woman?”
Morelli bent down eye level to his suspect. “You screwed it up, Bartello. DeCarlo wanted Farnum done, not Masters. Farnum will go under police protection now. You screwed up the hit, incriminated your boss and pretty much guaranteed DeCarlo will never be able to get to Farnum. I don’t think your boss will be too pleased about this. You can forget about Sophia. You can forget about everything.”
Bartello’s skin turned icy white. “Oh, my God,” he said, and his face told Morelli more than all the confessions in the world. “Oh, my God.”
* * *
By the time the sun rose, the various forensic teams had finished their work. The newest member of the trace evidence squad found a latent thumbprint on the outer terrace door that appeared to match Bartello’s. The pieces were coming together.
Not a bad night’s work, Morelli thought, for Tulsa after hours.
Two women from Barkley’s office carefully lifted the broken body of Kim Masters onto a stretcher. Morelli and Prescott watched as the silent parade crisscrossed the penthouse apartment and disappeared.
“Sick,” Prescott said. “And there you were blabbing on about how sad it was, how beautiful she was.”
“Is she any less beautiful,” Morelli asked, “because she turned out to be a he?”
“As a matter of fact, yeah. The whole thing’s revolting. Dressing up, trying to fool people.”
“I don’t think Kim Masters was trying to fool anyone. The first night they were together, Farnum said he kept asking, ‘Why can’t people just let us be who we are?’” Morelli shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “I think he was just doing what he could to find solace. They both were.”
Prescott pivoted at the door. “You know what I hate most about you, Morelli?”
“Not yet.”
“I think you’re just as disgusted by this as I am. But you won’t admit it. You’ve got to be the sophisticated enlightened right-thinking liberal. You’ve got to pretend you aren’t repulsed—even when you are.”
“Prescott—”
“Just tell me this, Morelli. And for once—be honest. You were all so upset when you saw that poor pretty girl, cut down in the prime of her life. When you found out she was really some…
freak
…running around pretending to be something he wasn’t, didn’t you feel just a little relieved?”
“No.” Morelli pulled his trench coat belt tight and buttoned all the buttons. “I felt worse.”
* * *
A cool and welcome morning wind caressed Morelli’s brow. Baxter joined him on the terrace.
“Crime scene is locked up tight. Lab work should be finished in a few hours.” She stood close, but not too close, to him. “Wanna get breakfast? Village Inn is always open.”
“We could do that.” He turned slightly toward her. “Or we could drive to Arkansas.”
“Got a hankering for a hot spring?”
“Might be a nice drive. Leaves are turning. Weather is cool.” He paused. “And we could be married by noon.”
“What
?
”
“No waiting period. No blood test. Eureka Springs has lots of ambience, if you like that sort of thing.”
“What has gotten into you?”
Her took her by the hands and looked straight into her eyes. “Look, we love each other. Even more importantly, we like being together. We’re good friends. People who belong together shouldn’t have to hide in a closet. No one should.”
“One of us would have to quit their job.”
“I’ll transfer to the suburbs. Jenks has been trying to get me for years. The point is, we don’t go on wasting time we could spend together.”
“But I haven’t planned—”
“We’re not kids, Kate. We don’t need a big ceremony with forty-seven bridesmaids and a Vera Wang dress. We just need to do it.”
He felt her arms relax. “Are you serious about this?”
“Everyone is entitled to a small measure of happiness. Aren’t they?” He led her toward the door. “Let’s get some pancakes. Long drives always make me hungry.”
* * * * *
BLOOD IN, BLOOD OUT
Brenda Novak
This is a story about loyalty, which life often forces to be divided. When faced with making a split decision, it could come down to who you’d take a bullet for. ~SB
Saturday Afternoon
As he sat in the run-down bar, brooding over a glass of whiskey, Rex McCready decided that his life was a series of battles in a war that would never end, and he wasn’t on the winning side very often.
“Hey, thought I’d find you here.”
His best friend, former cell mate and current business partner in Bodyguards R Us, Virgil Skinner, slid onto the bar stool next to him.
“What happened
this
time?” Virgil wanted to know.
“The same thing that happens every time,” he grumbled. He and Laurel Hodges, Virgil’s sister, just couldn’t get along. They loved each other, but they were both too damaged to make the relationship work, and the stress of having recently entered WITSEC—the witness protection program—together with Virgil and his wife, Peyton, only made matters worse. They all had different identities, his own name one he’d chosen himself, but no longer liked. Even after almost two years, whenever someone called him Perry, he looked behind him to see who the hell they were talking to.
It didn’t help that they’d been relocated clear across the country, to Washington, D.C. They’d had to get used to a new place, new names, new backgrounds, all while watching their backs for fear that the people who wanted them dead would find them. Add to that the whiplash effect of his on-again, off-again relationship with Laurel, and it wasn’t easy to build a stable life.
Virgil sighed as he pulled a bowl of peanuts toward him. “How bad was it this time?”
Rex had never struck her. He never would. But her husband, ex-husband now, hadn’t hesitated to cross that line, and that was part of her problem. She didn’t want to trust the wrong man. And by most people’s standards, Rex was definitely “the wrong man.” Seeing as how
his
problems were too numerous to list, beginning with the loveless childhood that’d led him into gang life and an eight-year prison term, he couldn’t really recommend himself. He’d probably still be a member of The Crew, his conscience conveniently anesthetized by drugs, if not for Virgil. Rex had recruited Virgil while they were serving time in Arizona. It wasn’t until Virgil was exonerated for the murder of his stepfather that having joined such a violent prison gang became such a problem.
Until then, it was the only way to survive.
After that, it was almost a sure way to die.
Blood in, blood out
—or in layman’s terms, “Once a member, always a member—or else.” In order to save Laurel, Rex had had to kill two of the men he’d once called brothers. Kill two and seriously injure a third…
The Crew would never forget what had gone down in Colorado, which meant he, Laurel and Virgil might never be safe.
“We argued. I walked out. That’s it.” He drained his glass and asked the bartender, a cute blonde with a Southern accent, for another shot.
“Betty,” according to her name tag, glanced at Virgil to see if he wanted one, too, and Virgil nodded. “Laurel will cool off,” he said when Betty moved away.
Their anger never lasted long. Already Rex wanted to go back. But he wasn’t sure how much more he could take. If they weren’t having hot, sweaty, full-throttle sex, they were arguing with equal ferocity. There was no middle ground where Laurel was concerned, and if he couldn’t have a positive impact on her life he had no business being part of it at all. She had her children—Jake, seven, and Mia, five—to take care of. They didn’t need the stress, the disruptions.
“No, man, I’m done. We’re just torturing each other. I have to stay away.”
Virgil’s gaze jerked to his face. “You mean that?”
Rex didn’t bother waiting for his second drink. He didn’t want to talk about Laurel, didn’t want to deal with their problems, not anymore. “Yeah. I mean it,” he said and got up and walked out.
He was so upset he almost didn’t see the man lingering in the shadow of the building. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of movement, but when he turned, no one was there.
It’s nothing
. They’d been living in D.C. for nearly two years, and yet he was still seeing faces he thought he recognized, still feeling as if The Crew was only one step behind him.
Quit being so fucking paranoid
.
Despite telling himself that, he tensed, listening closely. He wanted to figure out where the man had gone, get a better look at him. But when Virgil emerged from the bar, Rex took off down the street. He loved Virgil, as much as he loved Laurel, but he’d already said all he had to say.
* * *
“I found ’em.”
It was Mose, the man Horse had sent to Washington, D.C. Holding his cell phone to his ear, he stared out at the balmy Los Angeles afternoon visible beyond the window of his illegal club and felt a smile stretch across his face. At last! Horse had been waiting to hear those words for twenty-two months, ever since Virgil had emerged from prison and run out on them. Together with the other Crew leaders, he’d been determined to find and stop Virgil, or Skin as they called him, before he could rat anyone out to the cops. But when Rex, formerly known as Pretty Boy, turned on them, too, this became a personal challenge, something that went far deeper than regular gang business. It was partially thanks to Virgil and Rex that Horse held the power he now did inside The Crew, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to avenge those who’d been killed. “
Who,
exactly?”
“Laurel, for one,” Mose said. “And I’m pretty sure I saw Rex leaving her place. I followed a guy I think was him to a bar but I was afraid he’d see me, so I couldn’t get a good look at his face.”
“What about Virgil?”
“Here in D.C., too. I got a better view of him than Rex. They met up at the bar. I tried to follow Virgil home, see where he lives, but he was on a motorcycle. I couldn’t keep up.”
The Crew’s contact in the Federal Bureau of Prisons had taken a while to deliver the information Horse wanted, but apparently she’d slept with the right U.S. Marshal, one who didn’t want the pictures of their time together going home to his wife and kids.
“Virgil, Laurel, Rex. All three of them,” Horse mused. “That’s good.”
“Should I kill the woman tonight?”
“Hell, no! If you do you’ll never find Virgil and Rex.”
“I just told you, man. They’re all here in D.C.”
“But you don’t know
exactly
where they live. Not yet. You hurt Laurel, they’ll pop you and disappear.”
“They won’t pop me. When I come after them, they won’t know what hit ’em.”
Tough talk, but Horse wasn’t taking any chances. Virgil and Rex were the biggest badasses he’d ever known. “Don’t give me that bullshit,” he said. “We have to play this smart.”
“Which means what?”
He could hear the frustration in Mose’s voice. “It means you grab Laurel, since you know where she lives, and use her as bait to bring the men to you.”
There was a brief silence as Mose considered his instructions. “You think they’ll come?”
“They’ll do anything for her.”
“What if they call the cops instead?”
“They won’t, because they know you’ll kill her if they do. As soon as they arrive, shoot ’em all and get the hell out of D.C.,” he said and hung up.
* * *
Was that man following her?
Laurel Hodges stopped in the snack aisle to see if the heavily muscled man she’d spotted two or three times since entering the grocery store would simply walk past.
He didn’t. He moved into the same aisle but paused a few feet away and picked up a bag of chocolate chips as if he wanted to study the nutritional information.
“Mommy, what’s wrong?”
Laurel forced a smile. Mia was too big for the grocery cart child’s seat, so she was riding in the basket while Jake grabbed one item after another and begged Laurel to buy it.
“Can we get this?”
“No.” Laurel didn’t even look at his latest find. Lowering her head as though taking stock of the contents of her cart, she peeked at the man with the shaved head and the tattoos covering his forearms and tried once again to call Rex on her cell.
She got his voice mail. Damn it. He was really mad at her this time. She couldn’t think of any other reason he wouldn’t pick up.
She didn’t leave a message. If the man was a member of The Crew, this would all be over before Rex could do a thing about it. The same was true for her brother, Virgil—not that she’d call him. He had Peyton and his new baby to worry about.
Should she contact the police? They could probably respond faster than her WITSEC handler. But what would she tell the emergency operator? She could imagine the call…
Nine-one-one, what is the nature of your emergency?
There’s a man where I’m shopping who reminds me of some violent gang members who once tried to kill me.
Reminds
you of some violent gang members?
Yes…
Has he actually done anything to threaten or harm you?
Not yet.
God, would the police even come?
She dialed her WITSEC handler instead, but he didn’t pick up, either.
“Who are you trying to call, Mommy?” Mia had been playing with the cans in the cart but tuned in long enough to notice Laurel pressing the end-call button.
“The restaurant?” she asked next. “Do you have to go to work today?”
Laurel slipped the phone back into her purse. If she had to make a dash for it, she wanted her hands free so she’d be able to hang on to her kids. “No, not today.”
“Who will wait on the people?”
“The other servers.”
“Oh.” Mia went back to playing as Laurel, hands slick with sweat, propelled the shopping cart forward.
The man who’d been making her so uncomfortable didn’t follow, but she was afraid he would once she turned the corner. It’d happened twice already. She’d left him in two different aisles only to bump into him a second and a third time.
Unwilling to abandon the treat section quite so soon, Jake slowed their cart to pick up a bottle of soda. “Mom, can we—”
Completely preoccupied with the stranger, and how much he resembled the type of men who belonged to The Crew, she didn’t let Jake finish. “No, that has too much sugar.”
“Please?” he persisted. “Come on! Other kids drink soda. Look, it’s your favorite kind.”
“I said no—or…okay.” Taking it away from him, she added it to the cart and grasped his hand so he had no choice except to keep up with them.
“Mommy?”
It was Mia again. “What honey?”
“Are you upset?”
She’d had a hard lump in her stomach ever since Rex left, and this wasn’t helping. “I’m just thinking.”
“What about these?” Jake scooped a bag of cheese puffs from the closest display. “Can we have these?”
Laurel managed a tremulous smile as they passed another shopper. “No. We have to go.”
“But we just got here!”
She kept moving, so fast he dropped the bag of cheese puffs, and she didn’t even stop to pick it up.
“Mom!” He almost tripped as she dragged him along.
“Just do as I say,” she snapped and risked another glance behind them. The man was nowhere to be seen. Was she freaking out for nothing?
Maybe. As busy as the store was, she’d seen several other shoppers more than once. None of them stood out like this guy did, but maybe the argument she’d had with Rex was making her feel extra vulnerable, making her imagine the stranger was keeping a closer watch on her than he was.
Regardless, she didn’t feel safe here and wanted to leave.
Choosing the shortest checkout line, she wheeled her cart into place. The tattooed guy didn’t come out of the snack aisle, as she’d expected, but that didn’t matter. She was already too worked up to talk herself out of her fear. Suddenly, she couldn’t even wait the few minutes it would take to buy the groceries she’d selected. She had to get out of the store.
“Come on,” she said, lifting Mia from the cart.
“Where are we going?” her daughter asked in surprise.
“Home.”
“Without our soda?” Jake complained.
“I’ll get you an ice-cream cone later, I promise. Both of you.”
Just cooperate,
she prayed and hurried them out and into the crowded parking lot.
Jake wasn’t happy about abandoning their purchases, but he didn’t say another word as he climbed into the backseat of her old Volvo and put on his seat belt. He’d read her anxiety; it was so intense she could no longer hide it. The only other time he’d seen her like this was in Colorado, when she’d made him take his sister and climb out a bedroom window to escape what was about to happen in the house. She’d told both her children that what they’d witnessed that night had been playacting, but she often wondered if Jake, at least, knew better.
Her hands shook as she buckled Mia in. The painful memories were coming in a torrent now, memories of finding the U.S. Marshal assigned to protect them in a puddle of blood on the floor, his throat slit. Memories of Ink, The Crew member who’d survived. Ink, with the devilish tattoos covering his face, breaking into her bedroom. Memories of his hands reaching for her, his nails clawing her legs apart. The deafening blast of the gun. The acrid smell of gunpowder…
They’d
all
almost died. If not for Rex, they would have.
“Not again,” she whispered. “Please, not again.”
She was coming around the car to get behind the wheel when someone called her name. Fear and adrenaline shot through her, and she stiffened, but then she recognized the voice. It was Rex. He was here.
Somehow
he was here.
Turning, she saw him coming toward her and nearly crumpled to the blacktop in relief.
“
There
you are!” As soon as he was close enough, she threw herself into his arms. “What made you come back?”
He stumbled, surprised by her enthusiastic welcome but caught himself before he could fall, caught them both. “I left my phone at your house, but you have the place locked up so tight I couldn’t get in, and I didn’t want to scare you by breaking in, so I’ve been checking all your regular places. You mentioned needing groceries this morning, so…fortunately, I spotted your car.”