Dead Spaces: The Big Uneasy 2.0 (7 page)

“Never stopped them before,” he pointed out.

“True, but I managed to get clear in time.” That sounded nicer than “before the body arrived.” The senior Calvino was a stinking pile of poo, but he was Nell’s grandfather. Not that Nell looked like him or her cousin, Guido. Ellie had had a fairly aggressive gene pool, which was kind of funny. She glanced at Ferris, wondering if he had a plan. Because she didn’t. Seeing Nell wasn’t a plan. Plans had goals, things to check off. Targets to be met. Specifics. Hannah liked specifics.

“Did you finish searching the coffins?” Alex asked.

She should have realized that would be his first question. “Not exactly,” she admitted, propping a hip against the wood table so she wouldn’t shuffle her feet. “And I would like to point out that searching the coffins is technically Ingrid’s job. I dig through bodies.”

“Ingrid got called out, so we popped out to get some lunch, and while we were gone, someone visited the morgue,” Ferris said, as if neither event was that unusual.

Alex’s brows shot up, but his attention went to the unauthorized visitor.
Nice move, Ferris
.

“There were bricks under the lining,” Hannah said, “precision-cut bricks. And someone pried one out and took it.”

“They stole a brick?”

“Well, they stole something from a brick-shaped space,” she amended.

“What could someone hide in a coffin that would matter now?” Nell asked.

“That is a very good question,” Hannah said. “I wish I had a good answer.” Hannah looked at Nell and found, now that she’d met two of her cousins, she could see faint, very faint traces of both families in her bones, but Ellie mainly ruled there. Nell grinned and Hannah blinked. Not a good time to lose the plot. Hannah gave her a sheepish smile, then glanced at Alex. “Did Frank call you?”

Alex’s gaze bored her direction. “He told you?”

“Shouldn’t he have?” she countered, with a spurt of annoyance.

“It’s not your case.”

“Or yours.” Hannah caught a glimpse of Nell biting back a grin.

“Not anyone’s case yet,” Ferris put in, possibly in hopes it would put oil on troubled waters.

Yeah, he didn’t have siblings.

Nell gave Hannah an anxious look. “I thought,” she stopped. She looked wry. “I didn’t ask. Thought I didn’t want to know.” She turned to Alex.

It was interesting to see how her look got to Alex. He was too tough to cave, but his shields must have went offline or something because a crease formed between his brows. That was totally breaking out in expression for her brother. Hannah had to repress an urge to giggle. It was not a side of her brother she typically saw—and one he took care to tamp down when he’d brought Nell with him to family events. She didn’t blame him. With so many siblings, sometimes the only privacy any of them got was inside their own heads.

“Do I want to know?” Nell asked.

Hannah watched with interest, curious to see how Alex would respond. He was a cop, so he always wanted to know, but he was a cop, so protective was his go-to place. Uncomfortable opposites that made him almost squirm now. Possibly a character flaw that she enjoyed watching him almost squirming.

“The papers you found in the music box,” he finally admitted, “lacked clarity.”

Nell looked to Hannah.

“They were written in some kind of code,” she explained.

“Code?” Nell did shocked like she really was shocked. Which she probably was.

“And now they’re missing,” Ferris added, possibly to see her reaction.

“I take it you never saw your…dad playing with codes?” Hannah asked the question carefully, keeping a weather eye on Alex. If he thought the question verged on interrogation, he’d shut her down fast.

Nell shook her head. “My dad—the man I knew was a garage mechanic. The music boxes were his most exciting hobby. And he kind of sucked at that.” Her half smile rueful, before fading into worry. “Surely there are code people, though?”

“Code people cost money,” Hannah had to point out. Life was so much more fun on television.

“Oh. Old case.”

“Cold case,” Ferris agreed.

“And the people in charge of the money didn’t think there was a case,” Hannah finished. “Frank was massaging some contacts, so he had copies made, but the originals seem to have disappeared. The theft might change that.” Sadly it was not a given.

Nell grimaced. “It’s so hard to believe that long ago events could matter now. Almost impossible to believe it about my parents…even if I could wrap my brain around their past—they were kids when all this happened.” She half grinned. “I could imagine them doing the doll setup, but why? And why bricks?”

“To make the weight seem right,” Hannah said. But why the precise cuts? That argued preplanning?

“Oh, right. I should have thought of that.” She frowned. “But to fake their own deaths? Set up alternate identities? And codes? Someone helped them. They had to have.”

A small silence, then, “You think there’s a connection between your missing brick and the missing papers?” Nell asked.

“Well,” Hannah temporized, looking to Ferris for help. He rocked at tact so far.

“Let’s say that your parents are the only other common connection,” Ferris said, managing the tact pretty well, though Alex didn’t look happy. “So far. I know you’ve probably been asked this, but can you think of anyone from the past? An older friend of your parents? Even an overheard name? In theory, they cut off all contact, but in real life? I would think that would be hard to maintain.”

“A name connected with a feeling of unease perhaps?” Hannah added when Nell frowned and shook her head.

“Everyone in my life was there, where we lived, but I’ll give it some thought. It’s like I have memories of what I thought was real and the adjustment, well, it’s challenging.” Nell sighed, then looked up. “So they just took the papers? Not the gun?”

She’d forgotten there was a handgun found with the papers. Hannah hesitated. “The ring is also missing.”

“The ring? My—St. Cyr’s mob ring?” Once again her shock looked real.

“That’s crazy. It’s not the One Ring, for Pete’s sake. It was just an ugly symbol of his nasty power,” Nell protested.

Was it? There didn’t seem to be any connection between her uncle’s school ring and the mob ring of power, except that both had been worth stealing. Hannah felt guilty withholding that bit of information, until she reminded herself—again—that none of them were on the case. And she hadn’t logged the ring. Her insides twisted uncomfortably. She felt Ferris’ gaze on her, a hint of warning in it. It was done. She had to live with knowing she did it.

And that whoever stole it knew it, too.

G
uido stood staring
down at his uncle’s body. How small he looked. How dead. He’d wondered how he’d feel in this moment, when the waiting was finally over. When he got it all. It was something of a surprise to realize he would miss Bett. A little. They’d trusted each other as much as was possible. Bett had raised Guido to want his power and had used his power to keep Guido in check. They’d both lived their lives watching their backs. Knowing that the other did not have their back.

No one could be trusted.

Ever.

He looked at the morgue attendant. “There is a list of my uncle’s personal effects?” He’d seen the ring on Bett’s hand this morning. Had not found it in his desk, so he must have been wearing it when he left the house. He wouldn’t be able to get it until they released the body, he supposed—

The attendant handed him the list. He perused it quickly. His lips tightened. If someone had liberated it at the scene, he’d find out soon enough and make them regret it. Wouldn’t be a shock if someone picked his pockets after the hit. But—Bett’s wallet hadn’t been taken. Why just the ring gone?

“When I go, Guido, make sure you secure the ring,” Bett had insisted, more than once twisting the ring on his finger—something he did often. Guido had assumed his uncle did it as an act of pleasure. It was symbol of his power. Had it been something, meant something more? Had Bett believed it meant more? Or was his obsession with it a sign he was losing his grip? Guido did not spend too much time thinking about his uncle’s past, about how he, St. Cyr and Afoniki had obtained their “inheritances” from Zafiro. It was all so long ago. How could it matter now?

Secrets had always swirled around Bett, but the flow had felt tidal since Nell Whitby was revealed as Bett’s blood granddaughter. There were signs Bett had considered promoting a marriage between Guido and Nell—until he met her. In the end, he had not been convinced Nell was blood of his blood. Guido had not opposed the idea of marriage. He would need an heir, of course. Luckily women did not repulse him. It would not do—he looked at his uncle once more and wondered if he’d ever suspected the broad-ranging nature of Guido’s preferences. It didn’t seem likely. There were other cousins he could have groomed to take over. And Guido had been careful. Very careful. Even now he could hear his uncle on the subject of Nell.

“She’s too honest to have come from me,” he’d scoffed. “Let Afoniki play his games. Plots and schemes were always his mother’s milk. It will make his final hours interesting.”

Had Bett believed that Afoniki would be the next to go? Unless his body lay undiscovered, Bett had preceded his old—friend? enemy?—to the grave. Or rather, he looked around, the morgue.

In his line of business, this place was certain to be a stop on the way to the grave. He repressed a shudder. Without Hannah Baker to distract, this place had lost its appeal. He turned to leave, flanked by his men, considering how to approach the problem of the ring. And Hannah Baker. His thoughts paused. Had she—no, there’d been no time for her to secure the ring. She’d left well before they brought in his uncle’s body. He hesitated, then recalled the feeling he’d had that she knew something. He flexed his fingers, feeling the surge of new power flowing through them, through him.

Nell Whitby.

Hannah Baker.

They both interested him, though he tended to agree with his uncle that Nell was too honest to be that interesting. His concern was more about how Afoniki might try to use her for his ends, and that was slight. Her connection to Alex Baker—that might have potential for something. He could not decide if that something would help or hinder. Uncle Bett had believed she knew more than had been revealed. News had filtered out—or been allowed to filter out—that she’d found some old papers of her father’s which had been handed over to the FBI. Interesting that there’d been no follow-up on that. It was most unlike the FBI. He made another note to chat with his uncle’s—no,
his
contact there. His thoughts paused. Had Uncle Bett already gotten an answer to that question?

Threads, so many threads, with power flowing to and away from him. This was what Uncle Bett had kept from him by living so long.

Perhaps he did not miss him so very much after all.

“
H
ow do you feel
?”

His voice broke into her thoughts. And she was not sorry, she could admit, though only to herself. She looked up, met his worried gaze and smiled.

“How should I feel?” she countered.

“However you’d like.”

Oh that man. That man. Thirty years was not enough to spend with a man this wise in the ways of a woman. His woman, she amended. And he had not always been wise. Wisdom took time, she reminded herself. And courage. Both had needed to find their courage. So much time lost—and more than time. But if she let her thoughts go there, he’d know and feel her pain. He’d felt enough pain for a lifetime.

“I feel lighter,” she said, after giving the question serious consideration. “And younger.” She stopped there, lest she voice the wish. She knew he thought her loss the greatest, and it had been an almost mortal blow, but he—what he’d given up for her. And what he’d done since. The nights he held her when the nightmares came. Was it over? Or was it the beginning of over? “Did you find it?”

“Of course.”

“Still in the coffin?”

He shook his head. “In a desk drawer.”

“Really?” He nodded, his gaze meeting hers for a long moment. “Interesting.”

“Didn’t think the gal had it in her,” he admitted.

There was something in his voice, something under the humor. Her gaze narrowed. “What?”

He hesitated, then shrugged. “I thought I saw a ghost.”

Her brows rose as she tried to parse his tone and the look in his eyes. “A ghost?”

“Ah, my love, I am an old man.”

“They say you are only as old as you feel.” He knew better than to keep secrets, but he was also one to ponder long before bringing her into his worries.

He chuckled. “Then I am a very old man.” He clasped her hand in his and gripped it. “A very old man who is, perhaps, seeing things that are not there.”

She returned his grip. The guilt came more often these days, as the past bled through into their now. For so long they’d kept it at bay by not talking or thinking about it. By simply living. But perhaps it was time to face their past. Deal with it. Even as the thought formed, her heart rebelled. Just a little more time. Just keep the world at bay a tiny bit longer.

Thirty years was not long enough.

She studied his face, noting faint signs of lingering worry. “So tell me about this ghost.”

T
he brick was
where it had been left, sitting on the window ledge. Such an ordinary thing to cause such a stir. Sometimes the universe delivered to those who were ready to receive.

Not visible were the two rings and—bonus—the papers. Two rings down. One to go. Was the last old man afraid? He should be.

What was that saying about some being great and some having greatness thrust upon them? And then there were those—those select few—who were great and clever enough to take it from those who didn’t deserve it.

Speaking of which…

The list was not in the open, but secured in a drawer with a lock. Harold might not understand it, so she hid it, but now she extracted it.

Such a pleasure to put a line through Bettino Calvino’s name.

The question mark next to Nell Whitby’s name would remain, clarity still elusive as to her status as useful or not.