In the Worst Way (Mercy Watts Mysteries Book 5) (2 page)

“My home is your home. It always will be. The Costillas don’t play. You killed their baby brother. You think they’re just going to forget that? The kid was seventeen.”
 

“He was trying to kill me.”
 

“They don’t give a crap.” Dad spun me to face him. “You’re coming home right now if I have to wrestle you to the floor and hogtie you with zip ties.”
 

“No, thanks.”
 

“You’re coming,” he said between gritted teeth.

Richard Costilla’s face flashed in my mind. I needed a salad so bad. “I get it.”
 

The edge left Dad’s eyes. “I’ll buy you donuts.”
 

“I don’t want any donuts, but Pick wants some.”
 

He touched the lacy greens of my carrots that draped over the edge of my cart. “I can see that, but do me a favor and tell your mother that I bought you donuts.”
 

I shrugged. “Okay.”
 

“And that you ate them.”
 

“Obviously.”
 

“Good.” He took Pick’s leash from me and we walked to the donut guy. The smell of sizzling dough filled the air as he dropped a fresh batch in the fryer.
 

Dad bought a bag and leaned over to me, his broad forehead wrinkled under his red hair. “Are you sure about the donuts?”
 

“I’m sure.”
 

“How long are you going to punish yourself?”
 

“I’m not!” I gave my cart a hard shove and I dashed ahead of Dad and Pick. Pick yipped and his nails scraped the concrete floor of the market as he tried to follow me. My heart twisted a little. Somehow in the long weeks since Chuck left Pick with me, he’d become my dog and I hated to leave him behind but I couldn’t talk and I couldn’t think about talking. So the Costillas had marked me. I should’ve been frightened. Terrified would’ve been an appropriate response. Instead, I felt empty. I needed a salad. A salad and maybe some tofu.
 

Chapter Two

I’D JUST OPENED my truck door and grabbed my carrots when Dad reached me.
 

“Leave the freaking veg and get in the truck,” he said, huffing and puffing. Dad was rail thin but had the endurance of a guy with one lung.
 

“I paid for this stuff. I’m not leaving it.” I hauled out the bags, careful not to damage my delicate greens.
 

Dad shoved me out of the way and tossed the bags in. They bounced off the dash and windshield. He had no respect for my frisée.
 

“Knock it off.” I tried to worm my way back in but Dad took up a lot of space for someone so skinny.
 

He ignored me as usual, finished wrecking my dinner, and then tossed my cart in the bed of my truck without even folding it. I froze and stared at him. My truck was a 1958 cherry Chevy with original paint. He bought it for my sixteenth birthday, but it was really for himself. He thought a girl would never want to drive an old truck and he would end up with it, but I was on to his game and took the truck just to piss him off. He was always worrying about the maintenance and the paint since I refused to give it back and drove it every day. He obsessed like a fifteen-year-old girl with a crush on a lifeguard. “Is that a scratch, Mercy?” “Don’t eat in the truck.” “What kind of wax did you use?” He was crazy so when he threw that metal cart in the pristine bed of my truck, without a thought to the damage it would cause, I knew it was beyond serious.
 

“They’ll kill you,” he said. “And you won’t even see it coming.”

“Okay.”
 

“Follow me home now.”
 

“Okay.”
 

He turned to his car parked beside mine and his phone went crazy. It was the red alert signal from the original Star Trek series and not like something Dad would put on his phone at all.
 

“What the hell?” He dug it out of his pocket and glanced skyward. “Freaking Morty. He screwed with my phone again.”
 

I suppressed a laugh. Uncle Morty was my dad’s best friend and a computer guru of supreme ability. He loved Star Trek and all things nerdy.
 

“Morty can put ringtones on your phone?” I asked.
 

“Yes. Get in the truck now.” He looked down at the screen and paled. Now that’s saying something. Dad had zero color to begin with.
 

“What is it?” I asked.

“Get in my car,” he said.
 

“What about Pick?”
 

“Him, too.”
 

“What about the leather? His nails—”

“Get in the car!” he yelled and everyone in the parking lot stared.
 

I locked my truck, put Pick in the backseat, and got in. Dad revved the engine and peeled out while simultaneously telling the car to dial Morty.
 

“Yeah,” said Morty after picking up on the first ring.
 

“How come you got this before me?” asked Dad.

“Does it fucking matter?”

“No. How long ago?”
 

“Came in five seconds before I texted you. You think I’d sit on this?” asked Uncle Morty, managing to sound petulant.
 

“What’s going on?” I asked.
 

Both Dad and Morty told me to shut up. Fine. Shutting up.
 

“Morty, I want all you got on this.”
 

“I’m on it.”
 

I could hear Uncle Morty heave himself out of his chair. It was quite an operation. Dad ended the call and glanced at me. “Do The Girls keep an inventory at the house?”
 

“Huh?” I stared at him. The Girls? What did my godmothers have to do with anything?

“Pay attention, Mercy. Is there an inventory of The Bled Collection at the house?”
 

“Um…I think so. I saw one in the library a couple of years ago. Why?”
 

“Someone broke into the mansion and cracked Lester on the head.”
 

“Oh my god. Is he okay?”
 

“He’s old as dirt. What do you think?”
 

“Shit. Were The Girls there? What about the rest of the staff?”

Dad stared at the road as he weaved through the traffic. “Lester was alone. EMTs are on their way.”
 

I banged the dash with both hands. “Hurry up.”

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“Wanna bet?”
 

Dad hit the accelerator and yanked the steering wheel to the right, taking us up onto the sidewalk. Somehow we squeezed between a fire hydrant and the store fronts to bypass the traffic stopped at a red light. We lurched back onto the street as the light turned green and Pick slid across the backseat. I winced at the sound of nails on leather, but Dad didn’t seem to notice. He yanked right again and Pick slid to the left, making a tiny yip when he bumped the door. We hit a curb and he flew into the air only to land on all fours and slide to the right. Pick was doing that smiling pant that dogs do when they’re happy. Maybe he was used to it. I’d seen Chuck drive and he wasn’t exactly slow or smooth.
 

I turned to face the front and screamed as Dad cut off a delivery truck while lowering his window and popping his old cherry on the top of the car, flashing like crazy.
 

“Didn’t they take that away from you when you retired?” I asked while clutching the door handle for dear life.

Dad gave me his evil Grinch look. “They tried.”
 

“They’re the police. How could they fail?”
 

“Oh ye of little faith.”
 

I screamed as we narrowly avoided a woman walking six dogs. “Hail, Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners.”
 

Where’s my rosary? I need my rosary.

“Now at the hour—”

“Stop that!” yelled Dad. “We’re not dying today.”
 

“You just clipped a light pole.”
 

“It deserved it. You want to get there or not?”
 

“I want to arrive alive!” I yelled.

“I trained for this.”
 

“Was there a test? Did you pass?”
 

“They said I was too aggressive,” Dad said.

“No, shit!”

“Watch your language.”
 

“Are you kidding me?” I hit my head on the window as Dad made a sharp left onto Lindell Boulevard. “I’m telling Mom you tried to kill us.”
 

“She failed the test, too.”
 

“What is wrong with you people?”
 

One minute and thirty long seconds later we drove onto Hawthorne Avenue. Lucky for us the street’s big ornate gate was open for another car or Dad might’ve driven straight through it. We careened down the quiet street, passing the Lexus and its astonished driver. Hawthorne didn’t get many out of control cars or police cruisers and it was a banner day for both.
 

Dad passed our house so fast it was a blur and then slammed on the brakes in front of the Bled Mansion. Pick flew between the seats and landed on the console with his paws on the dash.
 

“You almost killed the dog!” I yelled.
 

“He’s a police dog. He’s fine.”
 

“He’s a poodle.”
 

“Close enough.” Dad jumped out. “I’m pumped. Let’s kick some ass.”
 

I got out much more slowly, acutely aware of our audience, five uniformed cops and two detectives. Pick jumped out behind me, spun in a circle, and barfed in the gutter. Dad stepped over the heaving Pick and yelled, “What have we got, fellas?”
 

The cops stared at Dad, even the ones that knew him well. I guess nobody gets used to my dad. I certainly didn’t. The detectives, Sidney Wick and Nazir, recovered the fastest. They walked down the long brick walk and Nazir flicked his hand at me.
 

Oh, right. The light.

I slipped around the car, popped the light off the roof, and tossed it into the backseat none too gently. If it broke that was just a darn shame. When I came back around, Dad was through the gate and talking to Nazir and Wick with big expansive hand gestures. I snagged Pick’s leash, gave him a soothing pat, and trotted past them.
 

“Hold on, Miss Watts,” said Wick. “Where do you think you’re going?”
 

“Are the EMTs here?” I asked.
 

“Arrived about forty-five seconds before you did.”
 

“Good.” I dashed toward the front door with Wick yelling, “Wait!”
 

I wasn’t waiting. It was Lester. I’d known him my whole life. He’d handed out the cigars when I’d been born upstairs. Waiting wasn’t happening.
 

The door was locked, but the alarm wasn’t activated. I unlocked the door with my key and, in an instant, saw that the alarm hadn’t been tripped. It simply wasn’t on. Weird. Dad programed his specially-designed system to be armed at all times since a guy named Jens Waldemar Hoff started sniffing around. He was the agent of a non-profit, The Klinefeld Group, who were suing the Bleds to get control of their extensive art collection. The Klinefeld Group looked like a solid organization if you didn’t look too closely. They were willing to say or do anything to get their hands on the multi-million dollar collection. Lately, they put out attack ads, slandering my dad and his police record and accusing the Bleds of stealing from the Jews before the Nazis arrested them during WWII. The lawsuit was all over the news and it was getting dirtier by the day because it didn’t look like the lawsuit would get anywhere. My adventure in New Orleans had come at just the right time. All the arrests stemming from my investigation made us look like saints and The Klinefeld Group like scumbags, which they were.

I swung open the big heavy door. “Where is he?” I yelled to Nazir.
 

“Kitchen!”

Wick punched Nazir in the shoulder and began stomping up the walk after me. “Don’t tell her that, you moron. She’s corrupting our crime scene.”
 

Dad waved for me to go in and I winked at him. I wouldn’t corrupt anything. I wasn’t some nitwit, despite what The Klinefeld Group said about me.
 

I tightened up on Pick’s leash and we headed into the cool interior of my first home, my birthplace. Pick’s nails clicked on the gleaming hardwood and he sniffed the Egyptian dog’s head that made up the armrest of the bench next to a display of family pictures on a rosewood table. Stella and Nicky were safe in their gilded frame, smiling in front of a Venetian gondola in 1938. Stella was The Girls’ cousin and she linked my family to the Bleds, but I still didn’t know why or how. I’d discovered in New Orleans that she and Nicky had met with my ancestors, Amelie and Paul in Paris, a meeting that was concealed just like Stella’s activities during the war.