Authors: Jack Parker
"Not the Mob." In another minute they'd be yelling at each other. Scott took a deep breath. "Now you're getting six for an answer."
"Are you saying you're a friend of Dante's?"
"I didn't say that."
It was clear that Scott was ready to go. He stepped into the living room, but Tessa remained in the office There was no way to stop the runaway train. Scott could hear her talking, her voice low as she continued trying to piece something together. Her murmurs stopped and she looked across the hall towards Scott, who was collecting his keys and Marlayna's envelope. The quiet caused him to look her way.
"Dante was your source." Her look was accusing.
"He's not really the noble type, is he?"
"If the price was right…"
"Do I look like someone who could bribe him? Tessa, don't..."
"Dante and I are very much alike, money isn't what drives him, either."
Scott could only look at her. He'd met the man; he wanted to dispute her fact but something told him she was telling a truth.
Another minute passed before she spoke. "I remember something. I even thought it was a bit odd. There were a lot of time he talked about Times Square and a dog. He was talking about you….wasn't he, Scottie?"
The blond man shook his head. "I'm surprised he said anything to you. You claim to be so far removed."
"It's been about a month since I've heard from Dante. Normally no more than a day or so goes by but…."
He didn't wait for her to reach his side, but started moving towards the front door, apparently with every intention of leaving her behind. "You need to understand one thing. I didn't seek him out, he found me."
Scott wrenched open the door, the hall light spilling across the threshold. "Time's up."
Tessa looked down, apparently finding no words to defend her brother. Some lines you didn't cross; talking about the 'family' was one of them. The knot deep in the pit of her stomach, twisted tighter. "He isn't such a bad guy."
"Oh, I'm sure in another lifetime we could be friends." Scott rolled his eyes.
She didn't smile. He didn't either.
He watched her. She was very still, her shoulders stiff. He closed the door and leaned against it. They both knew he wasn't going to leave without her.
"Got any other brothers?"
Walking over, Tessa put the stack of papers into his hands, effectively keeping them busy. "Actually yeah, one." Her body was close. So close that he couldn't open the door without stepping into her. "That's a bit of a problem, isn't it?" she said.
Trapped, Scott looked at her for a long moment. "Yep."
Tessa stood up on her toes, bringing her cheek close to his, her lips almost touching his flesh.. The contact was feather-light, and her expression sad. "Too bad," she said, before stepping back and opening the door.
"Damn." He let out a sigh and followed.
Logic
Whooosshhhh…
A hot shower was in easy reach, and Tessa stood beneath the spray. Her body, already beginning to relax from the warm water, felt the need to sleep. She forced her eyes open. As she turned off the shower, she strongly considered raiding the minibar of a mini-bottle of wine…or two, rather than wait for something nourishing from room service.
The Westin was a beautiful mixture of modern glass and steel. Scott vouched for the hotel, saying he'd put up out-of-town guests there on occasion and all were impressed by the accommodations. So far, she couldn't complain. The desk clerk pulled up their reservations and obliged Tessa's request for a room on a lower floor. The only glitch was when the bellman delivered her luggage to Scott's room, and vice-versa. But the mistake was rectified, and since, she'd been left in peace. Perfect.
Wrapped in one of the large soft white towels, Tessa sat on the edge of the tub, rhythmically massaging the hotel's lotion on her skin. The smell of lavender and laundry soap further calming her jangled nerves. For the moment she didn't want to dwell on what she'd learned in Scott's apartment barely an hour ago, so she focused on the mundane. Snatching the hairdryer from the wall, the redhead removed some of the damp from her long hair by finger combing the curls into some semblance of order.
All thoughts of rest, however, fled from her mind as Tessa opened the door from the bathroom. Her black carry-on bag lay on the floor, its contents strewn about the room. The bed was now unmade, the comforter pulled back and the mattress off center. The newspaper clippings and Post-it notes, retrieved from Scott's apartment, were no longer on the desk in an orderly stack. Her purse was not where she'd left it.
From her vantage point, Tessa could see from the hallway door to the window. No one appeared to be lurking in the shadows; whoever had come looking, was gone. One hand clutching the towel protectively, she sprinted to the white door that adjoined her room to Scott's. She gripped the gold knob and twisted. It remained bolted on the other side. Pounding on the communicating door, she called out, "Scott!"
At first, there was no answer. She worried something might have happened to him, but she called his name again, and this time he answered the door. Tessa pushed past him, her shoulder brushing his.
"What's the matter?" Scott asked.
Clearly agitated, she paced. "Someone flipped my room while I was in the shower."
She paused, but only long enough to notice his room looked blissfully normal. The only sign of disturbed occupancy was the desk where Scott had stacked pieces of paper pulled from the phone notepad. Tessa barely registered the Bible quotes scrawled on the tiny white pages.
Scott reached for the phone. "I'm calling the police."
"And tell them what?" Tessa said, placing her hand over his on the receiver, "That you're trying to keep two steps ahead of the Mob? They'll ask a lot of questions, maybe even accuse us of withholding evidence."
Scott relaxed his grip on the phone. "Okay then, let's go see what they found…or didn't."
"Or didn't," she echoed.
Scott's jacket was draped over the back of the desk chair. Reaching into a pocket, Tessa pulled out the coveted postcard. "I'm guessing since they didn't bust into the shower, they found something they liked, but not this."
Surprise flooded Scott's face. Maybe he couldn't believe she'd gotten away with the same trick twice. "I slipped this into your pocket on the plane. You said that perhaps they were after me," she said, holding the postcard of the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier between two fingers; the Smith Stained Glass Museum took up one corner of the picture. "Anything is possible I guess. But I figured if there was anything to your theory, you'd at least have the card."
"And if I was wrong?"
She shrugged with a smirk, "Hmm, not such a pretty picture."
Moving to stand beside her, he said, "Come on, I'll help you tidy up. And then we'll talk."
One of his hands rose protectively to the small of her back, his fingers inadvertently brushing her skin. Tessa jumped at the casual contact, and her painted toes carried her quickly towards the open portal between their adjoining rooms.
"The postcard really means nothing," she said, her tone reflecting the iota of betrayal she felt. After all, didn't the investigative reporter say he knew both her father and brother? "If Cy has any idea who murdered Darla, I'd say he wants it for nothing other than to attach it to the poor bastard's chest after he kills him."
Scott didn't respond right away. For someone recently burglarized, she was sure taking a casual view of the perpetrator's motive. Scott followed her to her room and looked around at the scattered belongings. "Only one problem with your theory."
"What's that?"
"You're staying in my room. I switched the keys."
"What do you mean?"
"In the elevator, I handed you the one meant for me." Scott picked up her suitcase and set it on the bed. He lifted one conspicuous item of clothing. "Let's hope they recognized the mistake."
Tessa snatched the lacy underwear from his hand, and grabbed a pair of jeans and a T-shirt from the floor. "Why'd you switch keys?"
"Impulse," he muttered under his breath, "apparently, a stupid, stupid impulse."
Tessa went into the other room to dress. Scott watched her go and studied the closed bathroom door for a long moment before he up-righted the chairs and straightened the bed. He found her purse, open and emptied, its contents neatly placed on the rug beside it. One eyebrow rose; though he wouldn't claim to be a professional on these matters, Scott didn't think a generic robber would have taken the time.
"Looks like your cell phone is missing," he reported, as she emerged clad and with her hair neatly pulled up.
"It was with my purse," she said.
"Not anymore."
Crossing the room to stand next to Scott, her gaze followed his to the organized cluster on the amber carpet. Two items stood out more than the rest. Her mother's crucifix, normally wrapped in a tissue and carried in a side pouch, was now lying carefully atop a picture that Tessa also carried in her purse. It was an old photo of a boy and girl about to blow out candles on a cake. The banner above them offered a simple explanation: 'HAPPY 18TH BIRTHDAY, CONTESSA & DANTE'.
Scott remembered something Tessa had said back in his apartment 'Dante and I are very much alike'. He hadn't banked on them being twins. This small revelation seemed to explain a lot; he understood know why a hit-man confided anything to his sister. Scott didn't comment.
The little religious effigy struck her as an odd coincidence, but she didn't bother to put too much thought into something seemingly so random. Bending down, she tossed all the items back into her purse, taking careful measures to wrap the cross once again and place it back into its original hiding place. The same care was taken as she lovingly returned the picture to the bag.
"Why would anybody be so interested in your phone?" he asked, as she pulled her belongings together.
Standing, Tessa faced Scott. "Not 'anybody'—Cy."
She seemed so certain, "I wish I'd gotten a look at this man, it'd be nice to know who's tailing me."
Glancing to the floor, Tessa bent down and picked up one of Scott's articles. It lay face up at her feet. "Well, that's Cy," she said, pointing to the picture. Tessa had looked into those eyes before and knew they held no compassion or feeling for anything.
Scott studied the group photo embossed on the newsprint. Cy Perelli stood with others in a construction crew photo, a hard hat on his head. He smiled for the camera but there was something in his eyes that drew attention, even in black and white. The tall brick building of the local glass factory was in the background. The article underneath read:
Recent flooding at Crenshaw Glass has put the 89-year-old business in jeopardy of closing. Local union members criticized maintenance crews for shoddy workmanship, and about 75 of the plant's 350-plus workers carried signs - mostly against the company's largest creditor, Northeast Credit Union, which forced the plant into receivership Nov. 8 after longtime owner John Brundock defaulted on borrowing agreements.
Several investors had inspected the plant in recent weeks, but none came through with an offer. The recent flooding scared away at least one potential investor, Chicago-based Xenex Corporation, which had been negotiating with Brundock to take a majority stake in the plant.
Another regional glass-making plant, Anchor Glass Container Corp., shut down abruptly Nov. 4, leaving about 300 workers without a job.
"So, it looks like this Cy character is big on petty vandalism and intimidation." Scott said, glancing around the room as if to accentuate his point. "Something isn't adding up. Even if he figured out where you were headed, didn't that kid say the Bible quote was sprayed on the wall
early
this morning?"
Tessa looked away, trying to find some hole in his logic. "But the tattoo…"
"What about it."
"The graffiti writer had a tattoo and the description matched Cy's."
"I heard the kid mention the tattoo but Cy was in Chicago chasing us around – so that brings us back to my original question why would somebody want your phone?"
She shrugged.
"Unless you have some top-secret phone number the person wanted, my guess is it's those pictures you took at the fire." He paused but didn't bother to wait for her to respond. "Now, who besides me knows you were taking them?"
"Our driver, for one."
He snapped his fingers. "And like an idiot, I told him to bring your luggage over. So, either he, or someone he told, cares we're here. Think back. Anything unusual at the crime scene?"
Shrugging, Tessa said, "The pictures were of the building and the Bible verse."
"And the crowd."
Tessa frowned. "You're right; I did take a few pictures of the people."
Scott said, "I'll bet that whoever started that fire was standing in the crowd and knew you'd recognize him."
Looking away, Tessa began chewing on her bottom lip, "Maybe," she mumbled in response to the logic. Contrary to Scott's misconception, Tessa knew a lot of people in New York; the cast was many. She knelt to the floor and began neatly stacking the research articles again.
Scott took the spot next to her on the rug and continued the work, stacking the pages in chronological order. "There should be more pictures," he said, "Did you take all the photos from the bulletin board?"
"No thanks to you, the way you were chomping at the bit to leave. But yeah, I emptied the wall. Why?"
"One of the last stories I did for the Post was about the Crenshaw Glass plant finally shutting down. It closed officially in January. I went out with a photographer and interviewed some of the union members. I had some pictures of the plant." Scott lifted the quilt and looked under the bed.
"Any chance you interviewed Cy?"
"No, I'm sure I didn't. I would have recognized seeing that mug before," Scott admitted, "but I don't like that some of the articles appear to be gone."
"Looks like somebody doesn't like our picture taking. I'll put my money on the guy being in both the crowd and in those missing pictures."
The postcard was still clutched between her fingers and within easy reach; Scott leaned forward and pulled it from her. "Glass," he mumbled, poking at the picture but more importantly at the Smith Museum building,."Gino's has stained glass windows."