Foxy Roxy (21 page)

She shook her head. It creeped her out that all Flynn’s guys carried weapons. “Don’t shoot off a testicle, Carl. You may want more babies.”

Roxy hadn’t figured out the whole ex-military attitude about guns yet, but she had a gut feeling it wasn’t much different from the mind-set of guys they’d grown up with who went into breaking and entering with the occasional convenience-store mayhem on the side. Except the Marines thought they were entitled.

Carl laughed, saluted his boss, and disappeared into the night. A moment later, she heard his motorcycle engine bark to life.

The rock and roll cut out abruptly. Then Flynn strolled from his office, rolling his neck as if to work out some hard-earned kinks. Tonight the black T-shirt clung to his shoulders like red on a Roma tomato, and his jeans rode low on his hips. His shaven head already showed a stubble of black hair, which would grow in curly if he’d let it. He’d been a good-looking hellraiser back in high school, but time in the mountains around Kohat and a couple more years of bumping around the world learning to cook had changed that.

He said, “Where’s Nooch?”

“I dropped him off to referee his grandmothers.”

With a grin, Flynn said, “I remember those grandmothers. One of them has a pretty good arm when it comes to throwing a frying pan.”

The memory popped up in Roxy’s mind. A Halloween night of soaping windows at Nooch’s house to irritate the grandmothers grew into smuggling pints of Wild Turkey into school dances and stealing cars in the neighborhood—only to joyride and park them in front of the wrong houses for the fun of watching irate people hunt up their vehicles in the morning.

She couldn’t help smiling. “Good thing you’re a fast runner.”

“You, too,” Flynn said. “And it’s a good thing you showed up tonight. You saved me a trip.”

He pulled open an under-the-counter fridge and put his hand on a takeout container. He skidded the food across the stainless counter to her.

“You made me dinner?”

“Nope. Call it an
amuse-bouche
for your uncle Carmine. I hear he’s not very hungry these days. Maybe this will tempt his appetite.”

“Where’d you hear that? Somebody paint a billboard?”

He grinned again, this time with sincerity, and the killer dimple popped briefly in his cheek. “I heard from Gino Peppo, buying mahimahi down at the market. Gino plays pinochle with Carmine every Tuesday. Says Carmine started chemo last week.”

Seemed everyone in town knew Abruzzo family business except Roxy. Suddenly Carmine’s job offer took on a different meaning. But with Flynn watching, she said, “Apparently you haven’t heard that I have no known association with Carmine.”

“I figured since he was sick, you might have eased up on that policy. He may be a crook, but he’s family.”

“He’s probably using the sick thing as a smoke screen. You’ll have to make your own delivery.”

“Okay. Hungry?”

She shrugged, not quite sure why she’d turned up here, but knowing it wasn’t for the food. Dougie called good night from the doorway, and Ray went out behind him, leaving Roxy alone with Flynn.

“What brings you here?” He had been watching her. “Looking for more leftovers?”

She summoned up some self-control. “No, I need information. I thought maybe you might have heard some good stuff from your fancy customers.”

Flynn looked surprised. “Wow. You’re asking for help. From me?”

“Just information.”

“That’s all?” Flynn asked, barely holding back a smile.

“Do you have time to talk, or not? Or is there somebody waiting at home in your bed tonight?”

“I have time,” he said without really answering the second question. “What do you want to know?”

Roxy took a deep breath. “Your dad still owns some riverfront property down on the Allegheny?”

He leaned against the counter and nodded. “Good thing, too. The newspapers say the city’s going to develop that stretch like they did down on the Mon River.”

Usually, Roxy kept up with local news, but the paper rarely seemed to have actual information anymore, so she didn’t bother to read it regularly. And reading the online version was a scattershot thing for her, too. But with Flynn’s family connection, she figured he’d have the scoop.

She was too tired to think up a way to finesse the information out of him, so she asked flat out, “What kind of development?”

“Condos and shopping, that kind of thing. Not industry. Some developers brought the mayor in here a couple of nights ago to talk about it. My old man thinks he’s going to hit the Powerball. He still owns the dock and the river salvage company property.”

To Roxy, any development along the stretch of river currently occupied by crumbling steel mills, dilapidated warehouses, and slum housing sounded like a gold mine. For somebody.

“Do you know anybody else who owns riverfront properties?”

“I grew up down there on the river,” Flynn reminded her. “Still keep a boat myself. I know a lot of those guys. You want a list?”

“Sure.”

Flynn reeled off a few names. Roxy knew some of them. “What about the Hyde family?”

“They owned the steel mill when it was in business. I suppose they still do. You could check the tax records to be sure. That’s public information. Why?”

“You know anything else you can tell me?”

By way of an answer, Flynn made a fist and planted it warmly on her breastbone, then pushed Roxy onto a stool. She sat.

From the little fridge he conjured another package. With a practiced flip, he unwrapped the white paper from a glistening hunk of fish. Stretching as easily as a cat, he pulled a clean sauté pan down from the overhead rack and cast it onto the stove. As flame licked up to heat it, he swiped a knife from its sheath and a handful of something wispy and green from a nearby pot. With easy speed, he chopped the herbs, cracked some pepper, and set about seasoning the fish.

If he was tired after a long night of feeding the city’s most discriminating palates, Flynn didn’t show it. As his body moved in the steady rhythm of a man who knew how to do something very well indeed, Roxy decided he had the look of a warlock casting a spell over the sauté pan.

She sat back and watched, letting exhaustion take hold of her mind at last. It had been a long couple of days, full of anxiety, hard work, and a few shocks she wished she could forget. But here was Flynn, cooking for her. For a moment, Roxy’s troubles receded as the heat of the kitchen warmed her bones.

Flynn flipped the fish in the pan, then slid the whole thing under the broiler. Next, he snapped the tips off some very thin green beans and dropped them into another pan with a knob of butter, salt, and pepper. His strong hands bore a dozen tiny scars—broiler burns. He set down his knife.

And said, “You thinking of buying some riverfront real estate?”

“Next time I win a bet, why not?” Roxy touched the handle of his knife, thinking. “Who else profits from development of all that property along the river besides owners?”

“Construction companies. Suppliers. Concrete and asphalt guys. Middlemen.”

“Right. You have a lot of middlemen in and out of this restaurant.”

“That’s us. Chefs to the lesser stars.” Flynn removed the knife from her hand and used a clean towel to wipe the blade. “Why do you mention the Hydes? Your buddy Julius is dead.”

“I talked to somebody he might have given the steel mill to. A girlfriend of his.”

Flynn slipped his knife back into its sheath. “Whatever happened to flowers and Whitman samplers?”

If Julius had given Kaylee cheap gifts, Roxy wouldn’t be wondering what the girl’s connection to his murder was.

Flynn walked away from the food for a moment and returned with a bottle in one hand and two long-stemmed glasses suspended from the fingers of the other. He set the glasses down in front of Roxy and splashed two inches of white wine into each.

Flynn picked up one of the glasses and broke across her thoughts by saying, “So, forget about real estate for a minute. What’s the real problem?”

“I don’t have problems.”

He sipped the wine and eyed her as he held it on his tongue a moment. Then he swallowed and said, “You’ve got that funny wrinkle in your forehead. And you don’t ask for help from anyone unless something big’s going on. Now you’re here with me, of all people.”

Roxy rubbed the knot between her eyebrows. “It’s nothing.”

“We’ve known each other too long to start lying now.”

For a second, Roxy wondered exactly how long she’d known Flynn. Raising hell on Halloween seemed a long time ago. But time didn’t matter anymore. It felt as if they’d been some kind of unit forever. More than friends. Less than lovers.

She took a slug of the wine. It was crisp—a word he’d taught her. And perfumey. She actually preferred Uncle Carmine’s sweet homemade red wine, but she drank Flynn’s choice so as not to insult his taste.

She said, “Aren’t you related to the Clearys?”

If the change of subject surprised him, he didn’t show it. “Which Clearys? The cops or the ones who own all the Laundromats?”

“The cops. Specifically, do you know Zack Cleary?”

Flynn tilted his head and squinted into the middle distance. “Tall kid? Basketball player? Cocky little bastard?”

“That’s the one.”

“Yeah, he’s some kind of distant cousin. Or an in-law, I guess, if you want to be accurate. Why?”

Roxy clenched her teeth, unable to say the words.

“What?” Flynn paused in the act of taking another sip of wine. “Wait, he’s not hanging around Sage, is he?”

“It’s worse than that.”

He laughed. “Dating her?”

Suddenly Roxy’s throat felt tight, and her eyes were stinging.

All trace of amusement left Flynn’s face. He put down his glass, hooked another stool close, and sat on it, bumping Roxy’s knees with his. He reached for both her hands and held them hard. “What’s wrong? Is Sage okay?”

“No,” Roxy managed to say. “Yes. I mean—she—thinks she might be pregnant.”

“Jesus. How did—? Shit. With Zack Cleary?”

Roxy could only nod. She’d managed to hold it together this long, but now—with Sage miles away and Flynn’s sympathetic face in front of her—the whole puzzle of Julius Hyde’s death faded from her mind and she was suddenly a bowl of mush. His hands were hard to the touch, yet gentle.

“She’s just a kid!” Flynn said.

“Sage turns seventeen in April. He’s a little older. Twenty or twenty-one, probably.” Roxy eased her hand free of Flynn’s. “She’s—I can’t believe I’m saying this—she’s the same age I was when I had her.”

“Jesus. It happened fast, huh? Her growing up.”

Roxy glanced up into his face. Sage had his deep-set Irish blue eyes and his dimple, too. And the same quickness of expression—the ability to show a lot of emotion, then shut down fast to prevent revealing more than he wanted. Tonight the force of his understanding felt like the heat of an oven.

She looked away from his probing gaze. “I feel like—I don’t know—like I blew it. I thought Sage was going to have it all, you know? Great education, great life.”

“Don’t write her off yet.”

“I’m not. But it’s … hard. Believe me, I know what it could be like for her, and I—I guess I should have done something sooner. Talked to her more, I guess. Been a better mom. I left the hard stuff to Loretta.”

“You’re a great mom. Loretta’s been good, too, but not like you. Look at her! Nobody’s happier than Sage. And smart? She’s goddamn brilliant. Kids don’t come more well-adjusted than she is.”

“She’s a little adult,” Roxy agreed, sneaking a glance at Flynn. “I’m the kid in the family.”

Flynn said nothing, but he held her gaze, and an odd moment ticked by.

Roxy felt her cheeks get hot. “I thought Sage could make it out of her teenage years without messing up the way I did.”

“The way both of us did.”

She let out a short laugh. “Yeah, both of us.”

He hesitated. “I haven’t tried, Rox. To be a part of her life, I mean. I thought you wanted it that way.”

“I did,” she said firmly.

If he noticed her use of the past tense, he chose not to remark on it. Abruptly, Flynn touched her shoulder and got up to check the fish. Using a towel to protect his hand, he pulled the pan from the broiler and slid the food onto a clean white plate from the stack. It was perfectly cooked, as if he had a timer in his head. A wrist flip sent the green beans from the second pan cuddling against the fish. He used a squirt bottle to paint a wave of bright pink sauce.

While his back was turned, Roxy used her sleeve to wipe her nose.

At last he was satisfied, and he set the plate in front of her. It was a pretty presentation of color, balance, and heady steam. He grabbed two forks from their bin and handed one over to her.

“C’mon,” he said. “Since when do you turn down a free meal?”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“You know how long it takes to get a reservation in this joint? Even if you come in the back door, the food’s going to be fucking brilliant. So eat.”

Obediently, Roxy took a bite of fish. It was good. Maybe even delicious. She forked another piece. “Tasty. What is it?”

“Ahi with a mango foam. And some technique I picked up in Singapore.” Flynn tasted the fish, too, nodding once with approval. Then he put his fork down. “There’s just one thing I’ve got to know.”

“What’s that?”

“Have you killed Zack yet? Or just hit him with a tire iron a few times?”

Roxy smiled grimly. “I’m weighing my options.”

“I’ll be your alibi,” he offered. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Thanks. I don’t know why I came here, really. Maybe because I knew you’d help me bury the body.”

Flynn watched her eat a few more bites of fish and try the beans. Seriously, he said, “Roxy, don’t beat yourself up about this. You’ve done your best with Sage, and until now that was pretty damn good.”

Roxy toyed with her fork. “I haven’t been, you know, an exemplary role model.”

He gave a half shrug. “Maybe not. Who are you dating now?”

“Dating? I’ve never ‘dated’ in my life.”

“Okay, who are you sleeping with?” he asked bluntly. “More important, are you sleeping with anybody Sage knows?”