Beachcomber (5 page)

“Looking for your cat?”

To say that she sounded skeptical was an understatement. Okay, so as an excuse that one kind of sucked.

But Luke nodded. “Marvin. I was looking for my cat Marvin. I saw him run under those bushes.” He jerked a thumb sideways toward the bushes in question, the knee-high ones he’d been standing in when she’d spotted him. “I didn’t even think about them being on somebody’s patio. I just went after him. I didn’t mean to trespass. I’m sorry.”

She glanced at the bushes. While her attention was momentarily distracted Luke considered leaping up and grabbing the can, but the thought of the consequences if he wasn’t quite quick enough dissuaded him. He knew Mace. He’d trained with it, he’d seen people hit with it, and he’d been hit with it himself. Twice. It wasn’t an experience he cared to repeat.

“There’s no cat under there.”

“You probably scared him away with all that screaming. I’ll be lucky if he’s not clear on the other side of the island by now.” Luke managed to sound suitably aggrieved. “What’s with the sound effects, anyway? You hurt yourself or something?”

Her expression changed. Her face tightened, and she cast a hunted glance in the general direction of the ocean.

“There’s a woman on the beach—she needs help right away—and a man. He—”

“You over there! Where’s the fire?” It was a frail-old-woman kind of voice. Luke dared to glance away from the menacing can, and discovered a flashlight beam bouncing like a ball in the darkness just beyond the privacy fence. Clearly whoever was carrying it was approaching along the path through the dunes that connected this beach cottage to the one on its north side. He cringed inwardly. He knew who was hurrying to Christy’s rescue, or at least he thought he did. Her name was Rosa Castellano, and she was the widow of one-time mob capo Anthony “Chub” Castellano. Eighty if she was a day, she lived in the house next door year-round now, courtesy of mob kingpin John DePalma,
Donnie Jr.’s father, who owned several properties along this stretch of beach. She basically spent her days tending the lush garden she’d cultivated in her front yard and watching the goings-on in the neighborhood. Luke had a feeling that not much got past her. He knew that he, personally, had not gotten past her. She’d been out in her yard when he and Gary had arrived that morning, and she had watched them suspiciously until they had disappeared into their rented house, which just happened to be next door to Christy Petrino’s on the south side. It was owned by John DePalma too, and had been rented out for the summer, but they’d managed to wangle a kind of emergency sublease.

“Mrs. Castellano, is that you?” There was relief in Christy’s voice. Luke glanced at her sharply. The fact that she knew Rosa Castellano was interesting, if not particularly surprising. Made men and their families had to retire somewhere, and the beaches of the eastern United States were becoming the place of choice. In fact, there were so many former associates of John DePalma in residence up and down the Outer Banks right now that a better name for it would have been New Jersey South.

“Yeah, of course it’s me. Who were you expecting, Madonna? Your mama called and told me you were here and asked me to keep an eye on you.”

Mrs. Castellano came around the corner of the privacy fence as she spoke and stopped short to turn her flashlight on Luke. Its beam caught him full in the eyes. He squinted, and waved a feeble hello. Mrs. Castellano squinched up her eyes and frowned as if trying to place him in her memory.

“Could you go home and call for help?” Christy asked, still keeping him covered with the spray.

“I already called the fire department when I heard you yelling ‘fire.’ You need the cops, too? You shoulda said.” Mrs. Castellano was a plump dumpling of a woman with sparse white hair, enough wrinkles to do a whole litter of shar-pei puppies proud, a sharp, beaklike nose above a tiny, pursed mouth, and an age-stooped back. Tonight she was wearing a knee-length robe zipped up over what was presumably a nightgown and mule-type slippers. She might look frail, she might sound frail, but Luke suspected she was about as frail as Ma Barker.

“Aunt Rosa, I
am
the cops, remember? I’m a deputy sheriff.” A dark-haired man, late thirties, maybe five-ten, two hundred twenty solid pounds, appeared behind the woman, with what looked like a .40 caliber Glock in one hand. He was wearing dark pants and a white underwear-type T-shirt. Like his body, his blunt-featured face was broad and bulldog aggressive. What he basically looked like was a charter member of Thugs-R-Us. Or, alternatively, a cop, as he claimed.

“Oh, yeah, I keep forgetting.” Mrs. Castellano shook her head, adding under her breath: “It just don’t seem right, somehow, a Castellano turning deputy sheriff.”

“Uh, I’ll just get up now,” Luke said, wincing slightly at the residual pain in his knee as he did so.

“Don’t move!” Christy squeaked. Bristling with renewed suspicion and hostility, she re-aimed the Mace at him.

“Just chill, would you?” Luke said with disgust. He
held up his hand in an effort to keep her more aggressive tendencies at bay.

“I got it covered,” Castellano said to Christy in a soothing tone, and moved purposefully forward, his eyes on Luke and his pistol not quite in play but ready in his hand. “So what’s the deal here? Where’s the fire?”

“There’s not any fire.” Christy looked at Luke. “This guy—”

Before she could continue, Luke jumped in, still in clueless good-neighbor mode. “Hey, I heard her yelling and came to help her and she freaked.”

“Freaked!” Christy shot him a hostile look, then glanced back at Castellano. “He was hiding in the bushes on my patio! He claimed he was looking for his cat.”

“Cat?” Castellano turned hard eyes Luke’s way. They were small and dark and mean, the kind you wouldn’t want to run into if you were a punk kid up to no good. Or a guy with no better excuse for being on a woman’s patio in the middle of the night than a nonexistent pet cat.

“Marvin,” Luke said by way of confirmation. Hey, it was his story and he was sticking to it.

“Christy Petrino, meet my great-nephew Gordie Castellano. The deputy sheriff.” Clearly oblivious to the turn the conversation had taken, Mrs. Castellano hobbled up to join the party. From her tone it was clear that matchmaking was on her mind.

“Pleased to meet you,” Christy and Castellano said almost in unison. Now there was good, solid mafioso upbringing in action, Luke thought, observing the pair
of them through narrowed eyes. In the mob, crimes up to and including murder were commonplace, but the children were invariably taught to mind their manners. Then his gaze sharpened on Christy. Her brow was furrowed and her eyes were wary. This was an expression of distrust, and it was directed at Castellano. What was up with that? Was it her habitual attitude toward all members of the law enforcement community, or was it meant for this one in particular?

“There’s a woman down on the beach …” There was an almost reluctant note in Christy’s voice. She looked Castellano up and down, and her frown deepened. Yep, distrust was there in spades. The question was, why? Luke was willing to bet the rent that she’d been genuinely terrified of something from the moment he’d first spotted her coming over that dune until Ma Barker and the deputy had arrived. Why, then, wouldn’t she welcome said deputy with open arms? Still looking at Castellano, she hesitated and added, “Uh, you didn’t happen to just come up from the beach, did you?”

“Me?” Castellano shook his head. “Nah. I been watching TV with Aunt Rosa.” He frowned at Christy. “A woman on the beach, you say? What about her?”

“There’s something wrong with her. She’s just lying there in the sand, and I think she’s been hurt. She needs help. I—we should call an ambulance.” The reluctant note was still there, which struck Luke as odd under the circumstances.

“What? Where?” Castellano’s voice sharpened. Christy watched him, biting her lower lip for all she was worth.

“Toward the lighthouse.”

The faint wail of a siren could be heard in the distance.

“That’ll be the fire department,” Mrs. Castellano said. She scowled at Christy. “Are they gonna be ticked off or what? Why were you yelling about a fire if there wasn’t one?”

“Fire department, rescue squad, ambulance, here it’s all the same thing,” Castellano said impatiently. He looked at Christy. “How about we go on ahead and you show me where she is? Aunt Rosa can point the way to the guys when they get here.”

“No! No.” Shaking her head, Christy took a step backward. The siren was obviously louder now, closer. “They’ll be here any minute, so it’d probably be better if we just waited for them.”

She was afraid of Castellano, that much was clear. Had they met before? From Christy’s reactions, Luke didn’t think so. But then, as he had reason to know, things were not always what they seemed.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Castellano said, watching her closely. “No point in taking a chance on them missing us in the dark.”

“Look, it’s been nice getting acquainted, but I can see I’m in the way here, so I’ll just be going on about my business.” Luke had to raise his voice now to be heard over the siren. A woman hurt on the beach was not his problem, and he was anxious to be gone before he had to explain himself to any more official types. The less attention he attracted, the better. He looked at Christy. “Sorry for the misunderstanding.”

“Hold it.” Castellano fixed those pit-bull eyes on him. His pistol was pointed down, but Luke had no doubt that could change in an instant. “Before you take off, how’s about giving me a name and address? For starters.”

Shit.

“Luke Randolph,” Luke said easily, giving the name he had used to rent the cottage. It was uncomfortably close to his real one. He should have gone for something totally different. But then, when he’d used it, he’d never expected to find himself under the scrutiny of a curious deputy. If everything had gone the way it was supposed to, neither the deputy nor Christy Petrino would ever have noticed him. He would have been just one of hundreds of faceless vacationers spending the last few weeks of summer on this laid-back beach, and nothing more. But as luck would have it—and damn Gary anyway, he was going to give him hell when he saw him for that tardy heads-up—she’d caught him red-handed practically coming out of her house. Having been left holding the bag, so to speak, it was up to him to salvage the situation as best he could. Glancing at Christy, he opted for the truth—at least, a small part of the truth—and essayed a lopsided, hopefully charming, grin. “I’m your neighbor. Me and a buddy are renting the cottage next door.”

Christy did not look charmed. Neither did she look convinced.

“That’s true.” Mrs. Castellano nodded. “I seen him move in. Him and some other guy, just this morning. Sonny and Nora Corbitt—they generally have the
house next door to yours in August—won one of them last-minute Caribbean cruises, all expenses paid, and had to change their plans to take advantage, so their house came available just like that. Can you believe the luck? I ain’t never won so much as a stick of gum in my life.”

“He was on my patio,” Christy said to Castellano, but her gaze met Luke’s, and it was clear she remained suspicious of him. “I never saw a cat.”

“So what happened? Did you hear him at a door or window? You think he was peeping in at you?” Castellano gave Luke another of those get-ready-to-take-the-perp-walk-you-creep looks.

“I … wasn’t in the house. I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk on the beach, and when I came back there he was, on my patio.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire,
Luke thought. He knew what she’d been up to on that beach.

Castellano’s gaze shifted to Luke again.

“Hey, like I said, I was looking for my cat.” Luke sounded so innocent he impressed himself. “He got out, and I don’t like leaving him out nights, especially in a strange place.” He glanced back at Christy then and tried to look penitent. “Sorry if I scared you.”

“Well, lookee there, there’s his cat.” Mrs. Castellano pointed with the flashlight.

Like everyone else, Luke looked around in surprise. Sure enough, she had a cat pinned in the light. Black and muscular, it was the one he’d seen sneaking around earlier. Oblivious to being observed, it was crouched in the tall grass at the foot of a nearby dune,
tail twitching, ready to pounce, its attention solely focused on whatever it was apparently planning to have for a post-midnight snack.

“That your cat?” Castellano asked, looking back at Luke.

What were the chances of there being two cats wandering around in the vicinity of Christy Petrino’s patio in the middle of the night? Slim and none. Luke mentally clasped the feral-looking feline to his bosom.

“Yeah,” Luke said. “That’s him. That’s Marvin.”

“Looks like he was telling the truth,” Castellano said to Christy.

“I guess,” she said, not sounding entirely convinced. But hey, there was the cat. Proof positive. What could she do?

Luke almost grinned. Sometimes things just worked out.

Flashing lights and a screaming siren unmistakably close now caused Luke to glance around. There was the fire truck, popping into view between houses as it raced along the narrow blacktop road that ran in front of this particular string of beachfront properties. As quickly as it appeared, it disappeared again. Christy’s house blocked his view, but he distinctly heard the squeal of brakes. He might not be able to see what was happening, but he had little trouble picturing the scene: the truck screeching to a stop, firefighters leaping off, rushing over the postage-stamp-sized lawn toward the house… .

“Around back,” Castellano yelled, hands cupped around his mouth. Only as Castellano’s voice boomed
through the sudden near-silence did Luke realize that at some point the siren had been turned off.

“Gordie, you scared the danged cat,” Mrs. Castellano said. “Look at it go.”

Luke watched as the cat leaped up the dune, bounding over the crest and vanishing into the night.

Yeah, sometimes things just worked out.

“Darn,” he said, folding his arms over his chest just as a quartet of firefighters in full battle gear burst into view around the corner of Christy’s house. At the same time, there was unexpected movement to his right. He glanced in that direction to discover a family with three or four kids coming toward them from the south, moving cautiously along the path that led through the dunes, drawn no doubt by all the commotion. A trio of teenage boys followed in the wake of the firefighters, having most likely chased the truck from town in search of whatever excitement they could find in this place where the lightning bugs and mosquitoes seemed to have pretty much cornered the market on nightlife. Behind the boys came two uniformed deputies, running to keep up.