Marilyn Pappano - Criminal Deception

“Hey, that’s two years of my life you’re talking about.” But Liz knew she was right. The U.S. Attorney might get a conviction anyway, at least on some of the charges, or the Mulroneys could walk.

There was a moment’s silence before Mika spoke again. “Do you think they paid him off?”

It wasn’t the first time they’d discussed the question. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Josh could be bought, and probably pretty cheaply. If he’d had a chance to escape protective custody, avoid the trial and make some money doing it, he would have taken it. To hell with justice. To hell with the fact that the Mulroneys had tried to kill him, and had almost killed his brother. All Josh cared about was Josh.

“No,” Liz said flatly. If he’d been bought off, then it meant someone in the marshals service or the U.S. Attorney’s office had been involved. His location had been a well-kept secret. He’d gotten no phone calls or mail; he’d had zero contact with anyone outside their two offices. Only an insider could have acted as a go-between for the Mulroneys, and there was no evidence to suggest that.

Still, when your life was in other people’s hands, as hers and Mika’s had too often been, you couldn’t help but wonder…

“Then he’s probably run through whatever resources he might have had. Mom and Dad and little brother Joe are his last hope.”

“If he can find them.”

“They’re keeping a low profile, but they’re not exactly under the radar. The extended family knows where they are, and while they’ve denied any contact with Josh, we can’t know whether they’re telling the truth.”

Again, Liz knew Mika was right. The Saldanas had relocated, not gone into hiding. They were using their own names, and Joe was in business for himself. It might take a bit of effort, but people like Josh were willing to expend a great deal of effort to avoid being responsible for themselves.

“I’ll be in touch.”

Before Liz could respond, Mika ended the call. No prolonged goodbyes for her. Heaven forbid Liz get the idea that she actually cared.

Then a flickering light came on in the lavender house-a television throwing shadows in Joe’s otherwise-dark living room. Not caring, in that moment, seemed a damn good idea.

Forties’ standards played on the café’s stereo Thursday morning, Esther’s music of choice. Even though she’d left half an hour earlier, Joe was letting the CD play out. The old tunes were comfortable, reminding him of his grandmother, who’d thought music began with Louis Armstrong and ended with Ella Fitzgerald. As kids, he and Josh had spent a lot of weekends at her house, taking turns dancing her around the table after Saturday night dinner while she’d told them stories of the grandfather they’d never known.

It was eleven o’clock, too late for mid-morning coffee breaks, too early for people making a java run at lunch. He’d had ten minutes since the last customer and caught up on everything that needed doing up front. He could head into his office, a small corner of the backroom, and do some paperwork, but the idea didn’t move him from his spot leaning against the counter.

There was always time for paperwork, and always paperwork to be done.

He hated to admit it, but he’d thought Liz would come by this morning. Even during the busiest moments of their a.m. rush, when Esther liked to complain that they met themselves coming and going, his gaze had kept sliding to the door and the streets outside, expecting to catch a glimpse of black curls and amazing legs.

All morning he’d waited, and she hadn’t come.

Scowling, he pushed away from the counter and took four steps toward the storeroom. Just as he reached it the sound of the doorbell made him pivot and return to the counter.

Not Liz. Just a stranger, tall, with a hard set to his features and even harder eyes. His gray suit was well-made but stark, the shirt a shade lighter, the tie a shade darker. He rocked back on his heels at the counter and studied the menu board posted on the wall above, skimming over the usual whipped, blended and frozen drinks. “Medium chai tea,” he ordered in a voice as tough as his face.

“For here or to go?” Joe asked, suppressing a grin. Sure, chai tea was popular with his customers-his female customers. Pregnancy made Ellie crave it at least twice a day. But from a guy who looked as if he should be ordering coffee beans-Don’t need no cup. I’ll just grind ’em in my mouth with a little hot water-it was a surprise.

“Here.”

Joe rang it up, made change for a twenty, then started the tea. Instead of taking a seat, the man stayed where he was, unmoving but giving the impression of loose energy, barely controlled.

“Nice town.”

Breathing in steam fragrant with nutmeg and cloves, Joe glanced over his shoulder at the guy, and the hair on his nape automatically prickled. There was no reason for it, he told himself. So the guy wasn’t a local, or even a good ol’ Georgia boy. Not with that accent- New York, maybe New Jersey, blunted by years elsewhere. He waited on strangers all the time with all kinds of accents. It didn’t mean anything.

“We like it,” he said, sliding the porcelain mug across the counter.

“Nice change from the city.”

Another prickle of unease slid down Joe’s spine, but he kept his tone as steady as his hands. “Depends on the city.” He had liked Chicago. Like his parents, he’d intended to spend the rest of his life there. He’d just needed a different place for a while.

“ Chicago,” the man replied with a humorless smile. “My name’s Tom Smith, and Chicago’s my kind of town.”

Joe’s hands weren’t steady any longer. Where was a cop when you wanted him? Maricci, Decker, Petrovski…hell, he would have settled for a meter maid. Or a pregnant Ellie, or Esther breezing in because she’d forgotten something.

He was overreacting. A lot of people liked Chicago. It didn’t mean Tom Smith was from there. It damn well didn’t mean he knew the Mulroney brothers. He was just passing through, looking for decent chai tea, not an easy to thing to find in Copper Lake. So what if he looked like he might grace some most-wanted list, or dressed like a guy who might work for the Mulroneys? The best-dressed thugs in the world, Josh used to say. The one who’d shot him had been wearing Armani. Joe had recognized it because the same designer label had filled his own closet.

Joe shifted his gaze outside. It was an odd moment when he could look out the window and not see a single friend, but the people he saw now were only vague acquaintances or, in the case of Louise Wetherby, striding past with an armload of shopping bags, even less preferable than the man watching him.

“Do you miss it?” Smith asked.

“Miss what?”

“Your old hometown.”

Joe straightened his shoulders and folded his arms across his chest. It was the middle of the day in downtown Copper Lake. Huge plate glass windows offered clear views into the shop. He had steaming pots of coffee within reach. Failing all that, the storeroom, with a decent lock, was only a few steps behind him, and a few steps past that was the outside door. And all that bike riding had given him leg muscles a track star would envy.

Run, he thought, and of course, he immediately thought of Josh, too. That was what he had always done. Run and let someone else deal with the fallout.

Pretending nonchalance, Joe shook his head. “I wouldn’t mind going up for a game.”

“Or a proper pizza.”

“I’m partial to hot dogs myself. But this is a sweet place. It’s got everything I want. If I feel the need for traffic and crowds, I can always go to Atlanta.”

“Except your folks. They’re not here.”