Leo bit into his pizza and wrinkled his nose. “Does this pie taste funny to you? It tastes funny to me—like tinny. Ricardo’s must be slipping. How ‘bout asking Nonnie to send me another lasagna?”
“I’ll get right on that,” I said, taking his plate with his half-eaten slice of everything but pineapple and anchovies out to the kitchen and dumping it into the trash can.
The pizza tasted fine to me. Maybe his senses were changing due to the virus. I’d been watching him like a hawk, every sneeze, every cough and every twitch, waiting for the sign—the one that would tell me it was time.
I hated myself for that.
Before Leo, my cases had always been a combination of raise this corpse and waste that rotter. Quick in, quick out; no muss, no fuss. I’d never gotten close to a rotter-in-the-making, to anyone who was holding off the disease with drugs.
I tried to tell myself that the tinny taste could be from upping his dosage, or maybe the pizza did taste tinny, and my taste buds were off. Then again, maybe it was like he said. He was just freaking tired of pizza.
This assignment was wearing on me. Leo was wearing on me. But the day would come, not too far off, when I’d move on to a new case and Leo would be gone. He’d be a ghost, a strange collection of memories and Leo-isms.
Nonnie’s lasagna sounded pretty good, and the comfort of homecooked food was the least I could do for him. I’d ask her to fix him one tonight when I got home.
I glanced back into the living room and found him nodding off again, so I sat at the kitchen table across from Rico, and checked the web for news flashes about increased zombie activity. A few posts popped up about sighted zombies and the virus changing across the globe, but like my prior search, nothing turned up about actual manipulation.
So, I messaged Philipe, a mercenary corpse whisperer who always had an ear to the ground. He was a reliable source for intel—at a price.
True to form, when he answered my message, he cut to the chase.
Nighthawk! Can’t say I’m surprised. I know what you want. The question is, what are you willing to pay for it?
At least he was consistent. I hovered my fingers over the keyboard and thought before typing my response.
The pay is good karma. Tell me who’s behind the virus manipulation, and you could save a lot of lives.
His answer flashed.
You know me better than that.
He was right. I did know him. And while I didn’t have any money, I had something he might find even more valuable.
I’ll owe you one.
Specifics, please. That could mean a great many things.
I winced. No kidding.
A favor. Someday, somewhere to be repaid. Best I can do.
Seconds passed before he answered.
I’ll take it. I don’t know who he is, but you’ll find his rhetoric here: www.duat.onion. Enter the password: Ammit.
Finally. A baby step at best, but still progress. He was taking me to the dark web. The site name Duat came from the realm of the Egyptian Gods of the Underworld. Ammit was a soul-eating monster, a dispenser of divine retribution.
A few seconds later, another message appeared:
If this ever comes back to me, we’re both dead.
No shit.
Understood. Thanks, Philipe.
Do not thank me. This is not a gift. You owe me.
Without a doubt, one day that would come back to haunt me.
Rico glanced at me over his phone. “What’s up? You look like you swallowed yesterday’s sushi.”
“Or worse,” I mumbled. “Did you run the tag on the Lexus?”
“Yeah. It’s registered to Stanous Electric.”
I shrugged. “They’re renovating that four-family brownstone near the corner of Jora and Paxton, right where Toby saw the car. I’m glad the kid had his eyes open, but sometimes a Lexus—”
“Is just a Lexus. I know.”
I wanted to dig into the onion site Philipe had given me but I would have to use Tor, a protected web browser, to access it. I’d have to bring my laptop back with me tomorrow, to see how good Philipe’s intel was.
Leo walked into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. He cranked the cap off with his teeth and chugged half the bottle there, beneath the fluorescent kitchen light. He looked a little yellow, but then, everybody looked yellow under those ugly-ass lights. On the upside, he seemed more relaxed, more like himself. If you could call that the upside.
He tossed me the bottle cap. “I think Dancing with the Stars is on in a few minutes.”
Rico looked over and groaned, then turned back to his phone.
Finally, the night was looking up. If I’d been at home, I’d have fixed me a big ole Jack Daniel’s slushie and plopped on the sofa next to Headbutt.
Instead, I poured myself a Coke Zero and settled in next to Leo, on the plasticized couch.
It was just as well. I could sense I’d been crowding Rico in the kitchen. Still in the dog house with Jade over blocking her access at the Coroner’s Office, no doubt he had a mouthful of crow to swallow. He probably wanted some space to chat with the conniving little wench.
Out of nowhere, Leo reached across the couch and took my hand. Not in a romantic way. It was more…needy. I’m not the touchy feely type. In fact, I had to fight the urge to pull away from him. But, knowing what he was going through, I didn’t have it in me to reject him.
We sat for a while, neither of us saying a word, watching the dancers, when he finally spit out what he wanted to say.
“Thanks for saving me today, Nighthawk. I know one day you won’t be able to. And I just wanted to tell you that’s okay. When the time comes, you do what you got to do. No hard feelings, huh?”
It was hard to talk, what with the golf-ball sized lump in my throat, so I just squeezed his hand and mumbled, “No sweat, Leo.”
When he leaned over to grab his water bottle, I wiped my eyes with my shirt sleeve.
Damn him, anyway.
Leo cranked up the volume on the TV. Len Goodman was chastising some celebrity schmuck, telling him he moved like a wounded elk.
Leo flipped Len the bird. “Goodman. What does that old fart know anyway? Thinks he’s the greatest dancer ever, slinging insults at these guys, like a monkey flinging turds. I could dance circles around that smug bastard any day—any dance.”
I snorted. Leo, a dancer? No way. Our hand-holding Kodak moment officially came to an end. “Gimme a break.”
Leo raised his brows. “You think I can’t dance? My mother taught me to dance when I was a kid. I even taught at Arthur Murray’s for a while before, well, you know, I went full-time with the Family. I got moves that hoity-toity klutz ain’t even thought of.”
Some people grew up wanting to be astronauts, some firefighters and some ballerinas. Me? I wanted to be Ginger Rogers. My dad and I used to watch all the old Fred Astaire movies on TV. Who wouldn’t want to be Ginger, gorgeous and graceful, floating through life wearing chiffon, heels and opera-length gloves?
On any given day, I’m lucky to be sporting clean underwear, a T-shirt without holes, and biter-proof boots. Everyone dreams. Even me.
“Look,” Leo said. “Maks and his partner are doing the waltz. Now there’s a guy who’s graceful and manly. A real guy’s guy.”
I couldn’t have said it better myself, except I would have added a few other yummy adjectives.
Leo pointed at the screen. “You want to know how to waltz, Nighthawk? Watch her, head back, elbows high. Count the beat. One, two, three, one, two, three—”
My phone rang. Normally, during DWTS, that’s an automatic send to voicemail. But I was on duty, so I looked at the display. “Hey Nonnie. Wassup?”
Leo heard her name and mouthed the word lasagna, making like he was shoveling food in his face.
I listened to Nonnie, while Maks and his perfectly-coiffed partner floated across the stage. I nodded here and there, throwing in a few well-placed uh-huhs, trying to move her along. But Nonnie wasn’t going anywhere. She must have been lonely.
We were out of milk, she said. And the bird seed was running low, so Kulu kept dipping into Headbutt’s food bowl, which started animal Armageddon in my kitchen. Yack, yack, yack, duck’s ass, more yacking.
“Nonnie,” I interrupted when she caught a breath, “somebody here wants to say hi.”
I flung the phone at Leo.
“Mia bella, Nonnie! How are you?” he said. “I was just telling Nighthawk…Allie…earlier, how much I miss your lasagna.”
Yack, yack, yack, duck’s ass, more yacking. Flirty laughter. Ewww. Enough of that. I tuned Leo out and focused on Maks. Screw his Barbie doll partner. She could have been wearing a bag over her flammable beehive, for all I cared.
By the time Leo finished running his mouth and hung up, Dancing with the Stars was over.
He let out a big yawn and stretched as he headed for the hallway. “I think I’m going to turn in now. Must be more tired than I thought. G’night.”
He was usually more of a night owl, and more often than not, awake when Powell and Ortega arrived at midnight.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah. Really. Just ready to turn in. See you, tomorrow.”
“Night, Leo,” Rico called from the kitchen
“Goodnight,” I said, watching him pad down the hall.
When Leo closed his door, Rico strolled into the room. “Is Dancing with the Dweebs over?”
“Yes. The cooties are gone. You can return now.”
His ever-present phone was noticeably missing.
“You patch things up with Jade?”
He took Leo’s seat on the couch and shrugged. “I guess. She’s got boundary issues. She can’t just show up in the middle of a crisis and expect special press access, just because we…date.”
“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” I tried hard to keep the smirk off my face. Allie: One. Jade: Zero. “I’m sure it’ll all work out for the best. Just give it time.”
Time to crash and burn. Not one to gloat—well, that’s a big fat lie—I changed the subject and flipped between our three available channels, hoping something good might pop up. Bingo. An episode of CSI.
About five minutes in, I realized it was a repeat, the only episode I’d seen all season. With nothing better to do, I sat through it, rolling my eyes at how easily their cases came together, and when it ended, I watched yet another episode. By the time the eleven o’clock news came on, I was rooted to the couch like a redwood tree.
Rico’s eyes looked heavy. Too much burning the candle at both ends. He wouldn’t get any pity from me.
I flicked him with a rolled-up section of newspaper. “Hey. When do you think they’ll schedule the grand jury hearing for Leo? I’m a little worried he might not make it if they hold off too long.”
“I was thinking the same thing. I don’t know,” he said. “We’ll have to get with Cap and see how the FBI’s investigation is going. Christ, I’m tired. I could use some caffeine.”
“Me too.” I headed out to the kitchen to nuke us a couple cups of stale coffee and heard a thump outside.
I drew Hawk, and turned to see Rico coming to my side, his Glock at high ready.
“I think it came from alongside the house,” I said.
He flipped off the lights to even the playing field.
It took a minute for my eyes to adjust. I peered out the kitchen window, into an endless blanket of pitch.
“I can’t see a thing,” I whispered, checking the lock on the back door.
Rico squatted below the picture window and scanned the front yard. “Same here.”
He checked the deadbolt on the front door and then crossed to the hallway, where he opened the door that led to the second-floor dormer. We weren’t using that space. Leo had taken the bedroom on the ground level, but someone could gain access through an upstairs window.
I stood in the darkness, letting my senses take over, every sound a warning, every movement a threat.
Then came another thump, louder, from down the hall.
Leo’s room.
“Rico!” I yelled, and took off down the hall.
I skidded to a stop in front of Leo’s room and turned the knob.
Damn it. He’d locked the door.
I thought about shooting off the lock, but Rico reached my side and threw his shoulder into the door. It burst from its frame and crashed against the wall.
I went left and Rico went right.
The room was pitch black and completely silent.
And the window was wide open.
“Cincinnati PD,” Rico announced. “Put your hands up.”
No movement, no sound, just a slight breeze blowing through the room.
I motioned to Rico, then knelt beside the bed, sucked in a breath and shined the light from my phone underneath it.
There was Leo, covered in red, lying motionless on the floor beneath the window.
Shit, shit, shit.
“Hit the light,” I yelled.
Rico groped his way across the wall and flipped the switch.
I dove across the bed and peered down at Leo, expecting the worst.
Onion and garlic fumes from his marinara-stained shirt assaulted my nose.
The window screen had been carefully propped against the bedroom wall, and a crumpled aluminum pan of leftover lasagna lay splattered across the floor.
If Leo hadn’t already had one foot in the grave, I’d have killed him right then and there.
I pulled him up by his shirt collar.
“Now, don’t go doing anything stupid, Nighthawk. I just wanted a little lasagna. You heard me say that earlier, right? Man does not live by pizza, alone. Nonnie called, and said she was fixing me a dish to send over tomorrow. But I didn’t want to wait. For God’s sake, I’m a dying man here! All I wanted was some freaking lasagna.”
“I thought you were dead.” I brought Hawk up, close and personal, so Leo could get a good look at him.
“Rico! Rico, man, take that gun away from her. I think she’s going to shoot me.”
“If she doesn’t, I might,” Rico said. “What the hell’s wrong with you? We’re trying to keep you alive and you go sneaking out your window in the middle of the night? We might have shot you as an intruder. How stupid can you get?”
“Sorry, guys. It gets so boring here, you know? Nothing to do but think about dying.”
He got up from the floor and hung his head. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I wasn’t thinking, that’s all.”
He looked at the lasagna splattered across the hardwood floor. “How ‘bout a little help here, huh? Nonnie made an extra dish. She’s giving it to you tomorrow.”
I grabbed a towel from the hallway bath and threw it at him. “You’re on your own, twinkle-toes. Make it snappy, before Powell and Ortega get here. And not a word. You hear me? Not a word.”
That was all we needed, Cap getting wind of this little episode. That was a disturbing visual.
An ugly thought crossed my mind: I wonder if they need corpse whisperers in Siberia.