Favors and Lies (22 page)

Benny the barber turned just as Ridge's massive forearm moved over his head and around his throat.

“I'll be in the car,” Reed Temple said to Major as he exited the trailer, closing the door behind him. Ridge rotated the barber chair, using Benny's neck as a lever. When the chair stopped spinning, he was looking up at Major, his face a partial reflection in the mirror. Major turned the handles on the faucets and the water stopped flowing, the water level an inch below the edge of the sink. Major picked up a pair of worn scissors and rapidly opened and shut them with his thumb and middle finger.

“Nice scissors.”

“Expensive, too,” the barber said. “You can have them.”

Major slipped them into his pocket and smiled. “I was planning on keeping them.” Major moved over to the far side of the counter and picked up a hair dryer. He slowly moved from the far end of the counter to the sink and plugged the hair dryer into the socket over the mirror.

“You really need to be careful at work,” Major said, turning the hair dryer on and then flicking it off. Sharp objects. Water. Electrical equipment.”

Moments later, the lights in the trailer flickered off and Ridge and Major walked out the front door of trailer, locking the door behind them and wiping the knob.

—

Dan squinted at the light in the art studio and rang the buzzer on the front door. A heavy rain translated into light weeknight street traffic. The slickened cobbled brick sidewalk hosted a few fast-moving locals and a smattering of leisurely tourist on their way to no place in particular. The air had turned cooler and Dan saw his breath for the first time this season.

Dan pressed the door buzzer for a second time and Lucia finished adding an entry into her leather-bound accounting journal. She stood and stretched behind her massive stone desk and then walked to the front door of the gallery. Levi the dog raised his head as Lucia passed by.

Dan waved through the glass as Lucia smiled and pulled the left half of the double door open. She was dressed in a white painter's smock, the colors from the day's trial-and-error with cubism dried to her sleeve. She looked at Dan's face and immediately winced at the wound hiding in his eyebrow.

“Come on in. You look like hell.”

“I feel better than I look.”

“What happened?”

“I had a run-in with some criminals. Or criminals-to-be.”

Lucia stood on her toes and touched the skin just above Dan's eyebrow. “You probably need stitches, if you want it to heal properly.”

“I don't care enough.”

“You might later, and by then it will be too late.”

“I think it makes me look tougher.”

“I think it shows you are slow.”

“Ouch.”

“Call it like I see it.”

Dan looked over Lucia's shoulder at the large new painting on the wall. Streaks of colors rained across the canvas diagonally, as if the brilliance of autumn leaves had been smudged across the wall.

“Foliage?”

“Shooting stars.”

Wrong again.

“You are starting to hurt my feelings. You haven't guessed one right yet,” Lucia added.

“You still arranging things in the gallery?”

“Just a little. Moving some of the smaller pieces to the back of the shop so that customers will be forced to pass the more expensive, larger pieces.”

“Thinking like a businesswoman.”

“Read it in a magazine.”

Dan pointed to a smaller painting on a corner table. “I think I have a shot at deciphering that one. It is clearly a dock of some sort.”

“A fishing dock. I was experimenting with realism.”

“I have been experimenting with that my whole life.”

“We have an art show this weekend down the street at the Torpedo Factory. You should stop by.”

“I may just do that.”

“Oh, you got a package. It's on the other side of the door. Someone dropped it off late this afternoon. That front door of yours confuses more people.”

“A little confusion is good,” Dan added. “Where is Levi?”

“I don't know. He was here.”

“Levi,” Dan yelled. Three sharp barks in succession brought the hair on Dan's neck to attention.

Dan peered around the corner and found Levi sitting at attention. Levi looked up at Dan, raised his paw, and put it on the package that had been delivered to the shop. He barked three more times in succession. Dan's bowels loosened and then time stood still.

Somewhere between hurling his body at Lucia and crashing onto the floor on the other side of the mammoth stone desk, the front of the gallery disappeared into a million shards of flying glass. Shrapnel ricocheted off the walls and smoke filled the room, drifting out the newly opened front entrance. Dan looked down at Lucia's crumpled body. Her chest heaved. Blood trickled from her left ear. Dan tried to stand, stumbled, and then succumbed to the darkness.

—

Dan turned his head away from the bright ceiling lights as the neurons in his brain relearned their connections as part of the healing process. A deafening ring persisted in his ear, intermittent with a skull-thumping pulse that was threatening his sanity. The nicks and scrapes on his exposed flesh had been bandaged, the blood coagulated. Dan cranked his neck the other direction and found the dangling remote control to the hospital bed. He raised himself to a seated position and squinted at the wall-mounted TV.

Gradually, he moved his feet over the edge of the mattress and pulled back the curtain dividing the double-occupancy room. The next bed was empty. He tugged the curtain room divider to the wall, exposing the bathroom on the far side of the room. A streak of pain emanated from behind his right eye and Dan fumbled for the call button on the remote. Moments later a nurse appeared.

“I need more pain reliever.”

“You are already at full dose. 800 mg of Ibuprofen. You refused stronger medication earlier, though I doubt you would remember.”

“I usually take 800 mg of Advil after the gym.”

“Well you shouldn't,” the nurse replied. “It's rough on the kidneys.” She grabbed the penlight and moved to Dan's bedside. “Turn this way. Look straight ahead.”

Dan stared forward as the penlight flashed back and forth in front of his eyes like blinding windshield wipers.

“You have a concussion. You took quite a blow to the back of the head. You will have a lump and some discomfort for a while. But all things being equal, you are lucky. It could have turned out a lot worse.”

“What time is it?”

“Early. Just after four in the morning.”

“How was the woman who was brought in with me?”

“She will be fine.”

Dan let out a sigh of relief.

“The police and fire chief want to speak with you. They have been waiting.”

“I am sure they have.”

“You want to talk to them now? I think they headed to the cafeteria, but I can have them paged. Or I can hold them off for a few hours. My medical prerogative.”

“I'll take a couple hours of rest. Hold them off with a whip and a chair if you have to.”

As the door shut behind the nurse, Dan pulled his butt off the mattress and stood. The loose-fitting hospital gown clung to his neck in a square knot. He looked under the hospital bed and removed the plastic bag from the shelf rack beneath the mattress. He poured the contents onto the wrinkled white sheets, fishing out his cell phone, keys, wallet, and pants. A mix of burnt wood, dust, and fire extinguisher spray wafted out of the bag.

Dan pulled on his pants and filled his pockets with his necessities. He located his shoes and flipped through the sheets looking for his socks. Ears still ringing, he didn't hear the two men enter the room until he glimpsed them in his peripheral vision. The first man to enter was older, more distinguished. Well-groomed and well-accessorized. An expensive suit to go with expensive leather shoes. Dark hair. Dark eyes. The second man was stuffed into a leather coat with no collar or visible indication of a neck.

“Dan Lord?”

“Depends on who's asking.”

“Joseph Cellini.”

Dan located his socks, sat down on the edge of bed, and pulled them on. “The name sounds familiar, but I can't picture the face.” Dan dropped his shoes on the floor and jammed his feet into them. “And if you don't mind, I am in a hurry.”

The man with the leather jacket was slowly working his way to his right and Dan registered he was being flanked. He eyed both men and sent a request to his brain for a database search on his visitors.

“I am Lucia's father,” Joseph Cellini replied, without elaboration.

Dan's thumping cranium digested the second part of the introduction. He had done a complete background check when Lucia had moved in and signed the lease, but the name Cellini was not in his memory banks.

“What was the last name?”

“Cellini.”

“Lucia's last name is Messi.”

“Her last name is Cellini. As far as
you
know, her last name is Messi.”

Dan thought about the answer and his concussed mind chugged through the possibilities.

“How is she? The nurse mentioned she would be OK.”

“She's going to make it. A broken arm, bruises. Things she will overcome. Injuries that will pass. Lucia tells me you tackled her before some kind of explosion tore the gallery apart.”

“I did.”

“You mind telling me you how you knew the place was about to blow?”

“Long story.”

Joe Cellini nodded at his accomplice and the massive leatherneck took several steps back towards the door. He grabbed one of the two guest chairs in the room and wedged it between the edge of the doorframe and the wall.

“How about you tell me just the same,” Cellini continued, hands together in front of him, fingers wringing.

The man's pose jarred Dan's subconscious mind and his brain generated a delayed response to the silent inquiry made moments before. “
Joey
Cellini.”

The man in the suit nodded slightly. “I call myself Joseph. Sometimes Joe. The media bestowed the Joey moniker on me, in honor of all Sicilian first names ending in a ‘y.'”

“Yeah, you guys definitely get a bad rap when it comes to names.”

“So now you know who I am. And in turn I want to know a few things about you.”

“Dan Lord. I have an office upstairs from Lucia's art gallery. I own the property.”

“I'm aware you're the landlord. I'm curious about the bomb. More specifically, why you suspected there was one and who the fuck would try to kill you and hurt my little girl.”

Uh-oh
, Dan thought. “I had reason to believe there were explosives. Levi told me.”

“The dog?”

“Is there another Levi?”

The massive leather jacket moved back in the direction of Dan with his own hand extended. Joseph Cellini waved him off with a flick of his wrist.

“Start explaining.”

“I took the dog for walks on occasion. I usually watched the dog when Lucia was out of town or doing an exhibit. I liked the dog.”

“You fucking my daughter?” Joey Cellini asked abruptly.

I would but I am not
, Dan thought. “That is a ‘no' on the daughter-screwing. The reason Levi alerted me is because I trained the dog to smell explosives.”

“That old mutt?”

“He is old, but he isn't a mutt. Wasn't a mutt.” A brief wave of sadness was washed away by a larger dose of piss and vinegar over Levi's demise.

“Any reason a normal person would teach an old mutt to smell for explosives?”

“The store was out of milk bones and I hate chew toys. Especially those squeaky ones.”

“Danno, may I call you Danno?”

“No, you may not. Danno is reserved for only one person.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Cute.”

“Danno. I have a good sense of humor. Thick skin. My friend here, well, he is less jovial, shall we say.”

“You looking to join the list of people trying to kill me?”

“I want an answer to the question. Why in the fuck would you teach an old mutt to smell explosives?”

“Well, if I didn't teach Levi to smell explosives, then you would be talking to a corpse right now. I mean, it seemed like a good idea when it first occurred to me, and now it seems like it was an even better idea.”

“There are a lot of ways to die, Mr. Lord. Why would you think someone is going to blow you up?”

“I've made a few enemies.”

“You're a lawyer, of course you have.”

“I prefer legal consultant or legal advisor.”

“OK. So instead of someone running you over with their SUV or—I don't know—maybe shooting you in the back of the head, you thought someone would take the time to get their hands on explosives, build a bomb, and kill you that way? And not only did you think it, you trained a dog to help you defend against it? Help me understand.”

“It was an accident. An unplanned discovery. I took Levi for a walk one day. I usually take him a couple times a week.”

“So you say.”

“One day we're down by the river front, in the park, and Levi walks right up to this kid sitting in the grass, resting his arm on his backpack. He looks like he's waiting for someone, or maybe just hanging out. I don't think much about it until Levi walks up beside him and sits. Almost as if the dog was at attention. Then he lets out three crisp barks, scrapes his paw on the ground, and lies down. At first I ignored it, but then Levi wouldn't budge. He just sat there next to this kid with the backpack, barking and scratching at the ground with his paw. About this time, the kid starts breaking out in a sweat. He looks real uncomfortable. I figure maybe he doesn't like dogs. I try to reassure the kid Levi doesn't bite and I reach down to grab Levi by the collar and that is when I get my first big whiff of weed.”

“A drug-smelling mutt.”

“Exactly.”

“My daughter owns a drug-smelling dog?”

“Make you nervous?”

“Careful, Danno.”

“So, after this incident, I figure our mutt Levi had a history. I mean, Lucia got him from the pound so who knows where he really came from. Maybe his owner was an old cop who died. Maybe the dog didn't like the way he was being treated at home and ran away. There are a million possibilities. I called the animal shelter and they said Levi was found in Old Town with nothing but a dog tag with his name on it. At any rate, one thing was certain. Levi smelled something and was trained to respond.”

“So how do you make the jump to explosives?”

“I figure, who knows what this dog was trained to do. So I bought some gun powder and sure enough Levi goes ape shit. After that, I got my hands on more formal explosives.”

“How do you get your hands on explosives?”

“This is the USA. It's all made right here. Certainly you know how easy it is to come by.”

Joseph Cellini ignored the implication. “Go on.”

“That is pretty much it as far as Levi is concerned. I'm going to miss that dog.”

“What is it exactly you do that would attract this kind of enemy?”

“I can't divulge that information.”

“The fuck you can't. Let me tell you exactly what is going to happen. You are going to tell me everything I need to know about who could have possibly bombed my daughter's art studio. I want a list of suspects. I want names and addresses. If you can't figure out a likely suspect, then I want a list of all your clients and I will have my people go through the list and find suspects myself.”

“Not going to happen. My files are very confidential. They are privileged information. And they are all right here,” Dan replied raising a finger to his temple.

Joseph Cellini ignored Dan's rebuttal.

“Then, after you give me the names, you and I are going to talk money. I lost a lot of investment cash in that art gallery.”

“The place is insured.”

“Only if you can collect.”

“What are you getting at? Didn't pay your bills?”

“Let me tell you a few things, smart guy. Number one, explosions are covered by insurance when some part of the house or building—like a water heater—blows up. When you start talking about bombs, well, that is a different story. Someone taking offense to your legal advisory skills and trying to remove your head with a special delivery may not qualify for an insurance claim. And then there is the matter of the investment money I have lost in the gallery.”

“I'm listening.”

“My daughter—God love her—always wanted to be an artist.”

“She is an artist.”

“Have you seen her work?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you think?”

Dan became uncomfortable. “Art is not really my thing.”

“It's awful. I know it. You know it. I look at some of these paintings and I don't see anything. Just colors. Shit, sometimes I can barely even see that.”

That much we agree on
, Dan thought. “They seem to be selling.”

Cellini paused and looked back at the closed door. “They are selling because I am buying.”

“You are buying your daughter's artwork?”

“Well, not under my real name. I pay to have others buy the art. I mean, it's not like I can buy it all and put it on the walls at my house. I have buyers who pose as art dealers and connoisseurs. People who are willing and able to do me a favor and buy artwork at top dollar from an artist in DC.”

“Oh.”

“Right. And one of the major calculations for insurance claims is . . .”

“. . . fair-market value.”

“And you can see where that may be trouble for insurance.”

“Hard to determine fair-market value when the market is manipulated by one buyer. Probably even harder to collect an insurance claim for a man with your, uh, history. Not to mention it would raise some money laundering questions.”

“You are a smart guy. I have customers who have ordered and paid for some of that artwork. I have a daughter who was almost killed. I spent enough money on renovations for that art gallery to buy a mansion. And I am going to have to sign another big check to fix it up again. I only think it's fair that the person responsible be held accountable. After all, they injured my daughter. They almost killed my only child.”

Dan nodded. He didn't want to, but he understood.

“Maybe we can sit down and decide on some level of financial compensation. Maybe once we find the guys who tried to blow you up, they will feel compelled to agree with a reasonable monetary settlement. To right the wrong they have done. If not, then it is on you.”

“Me? I was almost killed as well.”

“You or the people responsible. Makes no difference.”

“I can tell you this—the people who bombed the art gallery are not going to be around long enough to help out financially.”