“Rise and shine,” I sang when Jackson finally opened the door. It took him so long I’d begun to freeze again, but I didn’t let that mar my good mood.
“Tracy? What the fuck?” He looked like I’d managed to wake him up, rumpled, bleary-eyed, and kind of confused. Pretty cute, actually. He was wearing boxer briefs—I looked, so sue me—and had a sweatshirt on backwards, so he must have pulled it on in haste.
His legs looked every bit as fine as I’d always thought they would, by the way, lean and strong.
“I’m starting a new life and I’ll be damned if I do it alone. So put on your running gear and take me to the park.”
“At…” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Six-thirty in the morning? Are you insane?”
Having managed to pull the reverse of my nightmare, I beamed at him. “If I don’t do it early, I’ll never do it.”
“This is somehow my fault, isn’t it?” he asked, rubbing his face with both hands, which only managed to make him look more bleary-eyed. I’d never seen my boss so out of balance before.
“Sure is. You shouldn’t have given me those condemning glances whenever you spoke of running.”
Since he couldn’t deny he’d done that, he retreated to the foyer and disappeared upstairs. Five minutes later we were out the door—men could dress up really fast when they had to—and heading on foot to Marine Park that started right at the southern end of his street.
“You’re not wearing spandex,” I observed when we reached the park and the path that started at the corner there. He had opted for more traditional light grey sweatpants and a cotton T-shirt—white, to my surprise. I wouldn’t have thought he owned shirts in other color than black. His running shoes were similar to mine though, but well-used. He must run often.
“Or whatever this material is,” I added, tugging my shirt.
“God forbid.”
“Pity. Look how nice that guy’s abs look in it.”
And the back view was even better, I noticed, after he’d passed us, the tight shorts giving him a nice butt-lift. Or it could be his muscles were actually that tight. Maybe there was something to be said for jogging after all. And definitely for spandex. Or whatever.
Jackson only huffed. “Have you done any exercising lately?”
“Define lately.”
“O-kay…”
He started to run, setting a pace that was easy for me to keep up with, despite the fact that his legs were much longer than mine. But I managed maybe five hundred yards before I had to cry for a pause. Black spots were dancing in my eyes and I leaned my hands against my knees, but he wouldn’t let me stop.
“Keep walking until you can breathe again.”
I groaned but obeyed. Another five hundred yards later he began to run again, and I followed. We kept alternating between walking and running, although the running bits were getting shorter and my groaning louder whenever I had to switch from walking. With me bitching the entire time, threatening to do bad things to him the moment I caught my breath, we rounded the park—or the shortest path there.
“Okay, great start,” he told me when we reached the corner of the park where we’d started from, smiling, as if I hadn’t made the exercise a hell on Earth for him. “Tomorrow we’ll do this again.”
“Nooooo…”
“Do I have to come and fetch you?” he asked sternly. Now that I’d opened this particular Pandora’s Box, there clearly was no closing it. But I was sorely regretting my initiative already. Not even spandex made the exercising fun.
Fine, Lycra.
Having him fetch me would be too much like in my nightmare, so I shook my head. “I’ll be there.”
“But maybe after seven?” I agreed to that, willingly. “Now, since I’m here, I think I’ll run a few rounds more. You can find the way back to the car?” He pointed toward his street.
“Of course.” I waited until he had disappeared around a bend—running three times faster than with me—before limping to my car.
Jonny Moreira was leaning against it.
My determined limping didn’t falter I’m proud to say. It should’ve though, because he was intimidating. He was in his early thirties and six-foot-three of looming muscle. His shoulders were almost too wide for his tailor-made suit jacket; his black hair was combed back and his dark eyes were set deep in an angular face. He looked like a mafia goon, which in itself wasn’t a reason to be wary of him.
That he actually was a henchman to a New Jersey drug lord who’d recently set shop in Brooklyn, however, was.
“Did you have a good run?” he asked with a hint of a smile, straightening up when I reached him. He had a deep voice and a slight Jersey accent.
“How do you know I’ve been out running?” When he gave a meaningful look at my outfit, I amended: “How did you know I’d be running here?”
“I followed you from your home.”
The matter of fact statement froze me. “I didn’t notice you.”
“I’m good.”
“Right…” He actually was though. This wasn’t the first time he’d managed to follow me without me being any wiser. “Then why didn’t you talk to me there?”
“You were too busy getting into your car. I wasn’t fast enough.”
“It was cold.”
That made him smile. “I didn’t take you for a runner.” Since he’d actually witnessed me chasing after a fugitive, he made a solid point.
“I wasn’t. But then I learned that my ex-husband is married to a Barbie doll.” I don’t know why I confessed him that.
He snorted a laugh. “That would do it. Get in the car, we need to talk.”
“I’m not getting into a car with you ever again.” The last time I’d been held at gunpoint. Not a fond memory.
He shook his head, exasperated. “You’ll freeze to death in that outfit. Get in the car. I’ll stand out here.”
That sounded better, and since I was actually getting cold—the morning hadn’t warmed yet and I was sweaty—I did so. I lowered the window. “What do you want?”
He leaned against the hood, idly scanning the street for threats. He likely couldn’t help it.
“I want to know who killed Sheila Rinaldi.”
“What?”
He gave me a calm look. “I’ve seen the police report. You were there.”
“With the risk of repeating myself … what? How?”
“I have my sources.”
“There are more crooked cops than Lonnie Peters?”
Lonnie had actually been fired when it turned out he’d been working for Craig Douglas, and the previous drug lord too. He was awaiting trial.
He huffed. “He was nothing.” I didn’t like the sound of that.
“Well, if you’ve seen the reports you know more than I do. I only found the body.”
“You were in her apartment. What was in there?”
His voice was really intense, so I frowned, curious. “Why do you want to know?”
“She was my cousin.”
I pulled back in surprise. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said automatically.
“Sorry doesn’t bring me her murderer.” His dark brows furrowed in sorrow and anger.
“Can’t you just let the police do their job?”
“I don’t trust the police.”
“Not all of them are in the pocket of the mafia.”
“I’m not in the mafia,” he said, exasperated.
“You could have fooled me.”
“Craig Douglas is a legitimate businessman.”
“Who just buys cops for fun?”
“Lonnie Peters was MacRath’s man. We just took advantage of him.”
“Right…”
“Will you help me or what?”
“I don’t know what you think I can do that the police can’t. And it’s my brother in charge of the investigation. He’s good.”
Moreira growled. “Was it her husband who killed her?”
“Larry Williams?”
“How many husbands do you think she had?”
“I don’t know. But Larry definitely had more than one wife.”
He pressed his fists against the hood and pushed with such angry force I feared he’d dent it.
“I’ll kill him.”
“There’s no killing of anyone if you want me to help you.”
“Was. It. Him?”
“No.”
He pulled back. “Just like that? Even though the police have him in custody?”
“We have his whereabouts for most of the night, but it’s more a gut feeling,” I confessed. “Couldn’t it have been one of your people?”
“My people?”
“You know, mafia. Isn’t yours a family business?”
“I’m not in the mafia, for fuck’s sake.”
“You’re not exactly a Boy Scout either. You’re a drug dealer.” And I’d do well to remember it. “Maybe you have an uncle or a cousin who got her involved in something she shouldn’t have and this was payback?”
Moreira pinched the bridge of his nose, curbing his anger. “Sheila was a good girl. She worked at the Aqueduct Racetrack booking office and didn’t have so much as a speeding ticket.”
“Is that where she met Larry?”
“What?”
“His wife—the other wife who hired us in the first place—told us he liked to go to the racetrack, but she didn’t believe him.”
“I don’t know how they met.”
“How long had they been married?”
“Six months or so.”
“Was there anyone significant before Larry?”
“Why, you think the previous guy would’ve killed her? After all this time?”
“I’ve been divorced for six years and I still want to kill my ex. Although I’d much rather kill his current wife.”
A smile ghosted on his lips. “I guess it’s worth checking out. I’ll let you know.”
He turned to leave, but paused and then straightened to his full height. I reached my head out of the car window to see what kind of threat he had spotted and all but hit my head in my haste to pull back. Scott. He was in a bathrobe that gave me a glimpse of his sculpted chest, and wearing slippers, and his hair was messier than ever. He looked good enough to eat.
“Is everything all right, Tracy?” His voice was full of concern and he ignored Moreira completely. Impressive and foolish.
“Of course,” I snapped, annoyed both for his interruption and my reaction to him. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I thought maybe he wouldn’t let you leave.” He nodded toward Moreira, straightening and assessing him. Moreira just smiled.
“We were having a chat. And he may be big, but even he can’t win against a car. If I wanted to leave, I would’ve.”
“You two know each other?”
“Yes, we do. He’s my…” And again the urge to flaunt a nonexistent boyfriend before Scott was almost a physical force. But I rallied. “Client,” I managed to say. “And this is a private conversation, if you don’t mind.”
Scott shot a searching glance at me, and then Moreira, who had resumed his calm pose against my car. “Okay. Yell if you need help.”
I made a face at his retreating back. “You’re the last person I’ll need for anything,” I muttered.
“Let me guess. The ex-husband?” Moreira asked, amused.
“Yes.”
“I’d want to kill him too if I were you.”
“There’ll be no killing of anyone.” But he just grinned and turned to head to his car. “Thanks for the lockpicks,” I shouted after him, and he lifted his hand in acknowledgement.