Sticky Fingers (34 page)

“That’s good, because it felt like corruption of minors a couple of times,” I said. “I’m going to drop you a block from Loretta’s house.”

“Why? Aren’t you coming with me tonight?”

I saw the anxiety in her face and soothed: “You’ll be perfectly safe. There are probably half a dozen cops watching Loretta’s place.”

“I’m not scared for myself. It’s you I’m worried about.”

“Hey, no worries. I’ve got some business to take care of, that’s all.”

“With Dad?” Her eyes twinkled.

No. But it seemed cruel to tell her otherwise.

I gave Sage a kiss and told her she was wonderful. And that she should set her alarm clock for seven and spend the weekend filling out college applications. The reminder about the applications put a cloud back on her face as she slid out of the truck. I waved good-bye, turned the truck around, and watched her walk away in my rearview mirror. When she turned the corner onto Loretta’s street, I pulled away. But not before seeing a police car ease around the same corner. Sage would be safe.

I, on the other hand, put my leopard-print stiletto on the accelerator and floored it.

I cruised past my salvage yard, but the police presence there looked like somebody had set the national-security alert on neon red. I felt bad about Rooney not getting his supper, but maybe the cops were feeding him doughnuts. He’d be okay until morning.

I figured it was crazy to go across the river to my own house for the night. The streets were too narrow there, and I’d get trapped by the police for sure.

But I was tired. All the adrenaline I’d burned up that day was making my eyes itch and my brain feel fuzzy.

So I drove up into the dark and quiet neighborhood of Stanton Heights and parked in front of a nice little brick house that even had a picket fence out front. I pulled a packing quilt from the back of the truck. Wrapping up in its smelly folds, I stretched out on the front seat and went to sleep thinking about who most wanted Clarice Crabtree dead.

I woke in the morning when somebody tapped gently on my window.

I opened one eye and saw Bug Duffy holding two cups of coffee.

I groaned and fought my way out of the quilt to unlock the truck. He climbed in and closed the door. He was wearing a police department sweatshirt over a pair of flannel pajamas and the kind of slippers guys like him probably received on Father’s Day.

He handed me one of the coffee cups. “You could have knocked on the door. Marie would have made up a bed for you.”

“I didn’t want to frighten your kids.”

“Thanks.” Bug eyed me cautiously. “What exactly are you wearing?”

I used one hand to open the quilt to flash him. In daylight, the dress Richie had made for me looked even more bizarre. Kind of like a shedding snakeskin. Tight except for the wispy bits. “I’m told it’s couture.”

“Wow. Looks scary.” He sipped his coffee. “But a little sexy, too. By any chance, did you wear that getup to the Dooce concert last night?”

I took a tentative sip, too. Steaming hot and sweet. The caffeine went straight to my heart. Not the same kick as my usual morning Red Bull, but good enough. I figured I should dodge his question. “Marie makes a great cup of coffee.”

“On the weekends, I make the coffee. I’m only asking because we found a stolen Escalade in the parking lot of the arena.”

“I’m glad to hear you found it. The owner will be grateful. Maybe even drop the charges. Did you catch the thief?”

“Not yet,” he said darkly.

“How’s Mitch Mitchell?”

“Alive. Not talking yet. But he’s going to make it.”

We drank a little more coffee. A goofy-looking Labrador retriever waddled over to the gate of the picket fence, and stood there watching Bug and wagging its tail. The dog had a pink nose and carried an extra ten pounds.

“What’s your dog’s name?”

“Bonnie.”

Bug let me wake up, and we sat in silence for a minute or two. I sipped a little more coffee and finally said, “I think I know who arranged to get Clarice kidnapped.”

“I’m listening.”

“It’s a crazy idea, but I think I’m right.”

“Eckelstine?”

“No. Sugar Mitchell.”

“She’s just a kid!”

“A kid who knows her own mind.”

Bug shook his head. “You’re right, Rox. That’s a crazy idea.”

“Hear me out. The thing she wants more than anything is to be a famous ice-skater. She took the most expensive lessons. Her father drove her everywhere and made her the center of the universe. He is more like a groupie than a parent. Her mother paid big bucks for everything, but finally shut off the monetary spigot. Sugar thought her ice-skating days were over.”

“So she hired somebody to kill her mother? Rox, she’s only—what? Twelve?”

“Fifteen and a computer genius. She could have found Uncle Carmine’s name by doing a simple Google search for organized crime in Pittsburgh. The note I saw definitely looked like something a teenager would make. She knows all about cell phones and tech stuff, so she could have managed the logistics. Thing is, she has no feelings for other people—not even dear, devoted Daddy. I’m telling you, she could have done it.”

“She hated her mother that much?”

“She loves herself a lot more.”

Bug stared out the windshield, thinking. “Somebody from the museum called me yesterday. He had a story about Clarice maybe stealing museum property and selling it to collectors.”

“To pay for Sugar’s skating expenses.”

“Why did she stop? Did she get worried she was going to be caught?”

“Maybe. Or she was running out of bones.” I thought of the last bone left in her freezer—the one Rooney stole. “What matters is that Sugar’s cash stream ended.”

Bug looked unconvinced. “You really think the kid did it?”

“Either way, she needs a shrink,” I said. “Last night, I watched her with her cell phone and computer. She was fixated. But most of all, she’s completely self-obsessed. Put her alone in a room with a smart psychologist, and I’ll bet she confesses. In fact, she’s probably proud of herself. What have you got to lose?”

“But,” Bug said slowly, “if Sugar hired the killer, who actually did the killing?”

“I’m guessing it’s somebody in Carmine’s organization.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know yet. Maybe one of the old guys thought he could pull off a kidnapping, but screwed up.”

“And tried to kill Mitchell, too?”

“I don’t know about Mitchell’s shooting. Seems out of character that Sugar would want him out of the picture. I mean, he was her biggest fan. And he’s useful to her. But maybe he’ll be talking soon, and you can ask him yourself.”

Bug had forgotten about his coffee. He sighed heavily. “If I round up all the usual suspects from Carmine’s posse, it’s going to look like geriatric week at the station house.”

“Sorry. It’s the best idea I’ve got.”

He turned to me again. “How come you’re giving up Carmine? What happened to honor among thieves?”

I shrugged. “I never cared much for Carmine. If he spends the rest of his rotten life in jail, that’s okay by me.”

“Does the rest of your family feel the same way?”

I doubted it. Loretta still cared about him. And Sister Bob did, too.

Bug said, “Forget I asked.”

“Okay. Listen, I gotta pee, and I need a shower.”

He sat up quickly, like a good host remembering his manners. “Sure, right. Come inside. Marie’s making pancakes for the kids.”

“No, thanks. I don’t want any of them to think you’re friends with a scary lady like me. I’ll go home. That is, if you’ll call off the cops waiting there to arrest me.”

“Roxy—”

“Really, I’ll be fine. I just need a shower.”

“I am your friend,” Bug said. “Even if you wear those shoes.”

I waggled my foot. “You don’t like?”

He bailed out of the truck, then leaned back inside to take my empty coffee cup. He said, “I’ll call off the cops. Enjoy your shower. Just one thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Burn that dress.”

I flipped him a send-off and started the truck.

On the way out of Bug’s neighborhood, I thought about how to convince Carmine to tell me who had kidnapped Clarice. I wondered how hard I’d need to lean on the old coot.

I stopped at the salvage yard to check on Rooney. He was happy to wolf down the kibble I gave him, but seemed just as pleased to get back to gnawing on his bone. I left him to it, and on the drive over the river to my place, I ejected Dooce’s CD and listened to the radio instead. The concert felt like a long time ago.

At home, I stripped off my clothes and stepped into a hot shower. After a cold, uncomfortable night in my truck, the heat felt good. I washed the gunk that Richie had put in my hair, then lathered it up and washed it again. I tried not to think about Sugar and Clarice, but the whole mother-daughter dynamic floated up in my mind again and again. Had my own mother lived, might I have been moved to hurt her? I kept my head under the stream of hot water in an effort to wash the thought away.

When I finally shut off the water and opened the shower curtain, Flynn handed me a towel.

25

I squelched my surprise, took the towel from him, and stepped out onto the rug like it happened every day. “Did Jane Doe get away safely last night?”

He leaned easily against the doorjamb, playing it just as cool as I was. “Depends on what you call safe. For Dooce, it was love at first sight.”

“I have a feeling that happens to him after every concert.”

“She looked pretty happy, too. I talked to her during the concert—got the whole story. I don’t think you need to worry about her.”

“Do I need to worry about you?”

His mouth twisted wryly. “I lost my job.”

“What?”

“The restaurant owner fired me.”

“Jesus, over the soup?”

He shrugged. “I’ll get another job.”

“With Dooce,” I guessed, and felt cold inside.

Flynn wasn’t smiling either. His gaze was dark and intense. “I saw the way he felt you up after the show last night.”

“That?” I started to towel off. “It was nothing.”

“Not to me it wasn’t.” He reached out and stopped my hands.

I knew the look in his eyes. I hadn’t seen it in a while, but I knew it, and it wasn’t just about losing his job.

I boosted myself up onto the edge of the sink.

Flynn took the towel from me and wrapped it around my shoulders. Then, watching my face, he parted my knees with his hands, and I let him do it. In the next second he kissed me between my thighs, and I felt a shudder inside. He said my name against my skin. I closed my eyes and slipped my hands around the back of his head to hold him close.

It had been a long, confusing night. But now I felt as if I was home.

His tongue was hot and slow and sure, and I caught my breath as every sensible thought emptied out of my mind. I leaned back against the mirror and sucked in as much air as I could hold.

He still knew how to rock my world.

After, I took him into the bedroom and peeled off most of his clothes.

We didn’t talk about Marla. Or his job or Dooce. Or anything else. Mostly, we told each other what to do. What we wanted. Where, how hard, and how fast. It was long and exhilarating, and we lost our heads, got high on each other just like long ago. Eventually we collapsed together, panting and laughing.

In a while our smiles faded. He said I was softer than he remembered. He was stronger, I told him. I found his shrapnel scars and he traced the burn on my thigh—an accident at work, I said, but it had been candle wax. Maybe he knew I was lying, because he didn’t respond.

We dozed a little, wrapped around each other in a tangle. When he woke, we started all over again, but slower this time and with our eyes open.

Whispering.

In the afternoon, the sun came out and sent a blaze of golden light across the bedroom floor. It didn’t feel as if we’d done something stupid yet. It felt like a climax that had been building for a long time. I didn’t understand it, and maybe it was wrong, but I didn’t want to think about that while the sunlight shone on the floor.

But finally, I said, “I need to get to a wedding.”

“Me, too.”

It was better not to talk anymore. Instead, we took a shower together.

And then he got dressed, kissed me again, and went down the steps.

I zipped up my jeans and went out to the top of the staircase. With my heart hammering, I worked up the courage to ask, “Are you going with Dooce?”

Flynn turned on the landing, but didn’t look up at me. “Maybe.”

It sounded more like yes. “Is that smart? With all the drugs available?”

“Maybe not.”

“And what about Sage?” What about me? I wanted to ask. But I didn’t.

“It’s not forever. Tour goes on hiatus in December for a couple months.”

“And then?”

“Europe. Australia.”

He might as well have punched me in the gut. “Jesus, Flynn. Can’t you go farther away from us?”

He glanced up at last. “It’s not forever.”

“Right. It was only sixteen years the last time. Nice of you to drop by. Send a postcard now and then, will you? Sage could start a collection.”

He said, “Can’t you make things easier? Just this once?”

“You mean, because you brought me off a few times this afternoon?”

“Rox—”

“You want to know something?” I asked. “I switched the bones in your kitchen. It was me.”

“What?”

“Rooney stole a bone out of the dinosaur lady’s collection. That’s what you cooked. That was your secret ingredient. Two thousand year-old woolly mammoth marrow, dug up from the permafrost in Siberia. I’m glad to hear it was delicious.”

He stared up at me. “You did that? On purpose? Roxy, why?”

“Why not?” The words burst bitterly out of me. “You want to know how miserable you made my life?”

“So you sabotaged my job?”

“You sabotaged my whole existence!”

He came up the stairs fast and grabbed my shoulders. “How can you say that? You’ve had it good. You had Sage this whole time, all to yourself. What else do you want?” His hands bit into me, and he gave me a shake. “What else do you want?”

I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t say it.