Marilyn Pappano - Criminal Deception

Beside him, Elizabeth lifted her head, scowling her annoyance with him for disturbing her nap. He scowled back, slid to his feet and shuffled into the kitchen. First things first: dumping Ayutepeque beans into the grinder, scooping more than a tablespoon but less than a heaping tablespoon into the filter, adding eight ounces of cold water from the refrigerator dispenser. While the coffee perked, he went into the living room and returned with the biking magazine.

It had arrived in the mail two months ago, give or take, in a manila envelope postmarked Denver. The address had been handwritten with a felt-tip marker, by a woman, he’d guess. It would have been so easy for Josh to persuade a postal clerk to do it-a phony bandage on his right hand, a smile, Please . Anything to keep the feds from recognizing his writing-and Joe, too, because he probably would have thrown it away unopened if he’d known it was from Josh.

He’d almost tossed it anyway, figuring it was junk mail, a come-on from someone who wanted to part him from his money. But he’d flipped through the pages, and near the back a familiar mark had caught his attention. A smudge on the final digit of the page number. A printer’s error, or so it seemed.

It was a simple code, one they’d used as kids, when age and proximity had kept them close. Anything with numbers and letters worked-a book, a newspaper, a catalog. Small smudges, faint pencil lines, blots-the message was spelled out one letter or digit at a time. He’d written this one down the night he’d gotten it, then immediately burned the paper. Now he wrote it down again.

For emergency. Following it was a ten-digit number.

How had Josh gotten his address? had been his first thought. From their mother’s friend, Opal, maybe. Hell, he might have looked up Joe on the Internet. Leave it to the good brother to hide using his real name, he could imagine Josh scoffing.

What emergency could ever make Joe want to contact him? had been his next thought. Nothing less tragic than the death of one of their parents.

That and, now, Liz.

What about us?

Her damned silence still rang in his ears.

Did it matter now whether Josh still had a claim on her? No. Because, apparently, Joe didn’t either.

But maybe…Maybe then he’d know whether she’d been using him as a substitute for Josh.

The coffee finished, and he breathed deeply, immediately regretting it. Damned if it didn’t make him remember last night. Damned if it didn’t arouse him more than a little. Great. Getting a hard-on every time he smelled coffee brewing, especially when he worked in a freaking coffee shop…He’d known Liz was trouble from the first time he’d seen her. Had known he should stay the hell away from her. But no, he’d had to ignore the wise voices in his head, and look at him now.

He sweetened the coffee with a spoonful of raw sugar, then drank it while he got dressed, laced on his sneakers, took his helmet from the coat stand. With the notepaper crinkling, he stuffed his wallet in one pocket, a handful of change in another, grabbed his keys and left the house.

He needed a pay phone because it seemed likely that his home, cell and shop phones were being monitored by the good guys, the bad guys or maybe both. And the best place to use a pay phone unnoticed was at the mall.

He carried the bike down the steps and was cinching the helmet strap tightly when he caught the sound of a door closing nearby. Not Liz , he thought, hoped grimly, but of course it was.

With her hair in a ponytail, khaki shorts and a short-sleeved chambray shirt, she should have looked as casual as hell. She didn’t. She looked beautiful and elegant-there were creases pressed into her shorts, for pity’s sake-and uncharacteristically uncomfortable. “Hi.”

He nodded curtly as he mounted the bike.

“I, uh, wondered if we were still on for our ride to the lake today. Natalia said I could, uh, borrow her bike.”

He’d made the suggestion less than forty-eight hours earlier, just before some thug had tried to run them down on the sidewalk. It had seemed a good idea then-a nice place, a picnic lunch, a pretty woman…Now he couldn’t think of much he wanted less than private time with Liz. “Later, okay?”

“Oh. Okay.” She shifted, her sandaled feet coming into view in the grass where he was staring. She sounded part disappointed, part phony. “I can give you a ride wherever you’re going.”

“No, thanks.”

“I don’t mind. We could talk.”

Oh yeah, that sounded like fun. He’d tried talking last night, hadn’t he, and look where it’d gotten him. “Look, I’m not in much of a mood for talking. Maybe later.” Maybe never.

Her cheeks flushed and she took a step back. She tried to smile, but it was shaky. “Okay. Sure. Later.”

She watched as he rode away. He swore he could feel her gaze on him long after distance and Miss Abigail’s house had blocked her view.

It was good weather for riding: sunny, not too hot or too humid, just enough breeze to cool without affecting control of the bike. He hardly noticed it, though. His attention was focused on the upcoming call.

He would tell Josh to stay away from the Mulroneys, from their parents, from him.

He would ask what was between Josh and Liz.

He would ask what she wanted from him.

He would ask why he shouldn’t give her the phone number.

And he would tell his brother, if he bothered to ask, that their parents were fine.

And to be careful.

Assuming, of course, that the number was still good, that he got to talk to Josh at all, that his brother was even alive to talk to.

Hands tight on the grips, Joe waited for a break in traffic, then turned left onto Carolina Avenue. The mall was a half dozen blocks to the east, small, one-story, sitting in the middle of a six-acre parking lot. There were no bike racks, so when he stopped near the main entrance, he climbed off and secured the bike to a light post with the chain and padlock he kept looped around the crossbar.

The air inside was cool, processed, stale. The food court was busy, shoppers moved from store to store, and kids congregated wherever there was room. A good chunk of Copper Lake still believed that Sunday was the Lord’s day and ate dinner with family after church, but the rest of them were shopping or hanging out here.

Holding his helmet by the strap, he headed toward the little-used south entrance, where a small alcove just inside the doors housed two pay phones and an ATM. Turning his back to the shoppers, he dug the number from his pocket, dropped in two quarters and, with hardly a tremble to his hand, he dialed.

At the other end, the phone rang four times before going to voice mail. The recording was to the point: “Leave a message.” It was Josh’s voice, not so flippant, not so smug as usual, but proof that two months ago, at least, he’d been alive.

Before Joe found his voice, the phone disconnected. He fed in two more quarters, dialed again and this time, after the beep, said, “It’s me. Joe. I’m at a pay phone at 706-555-3312. I’ll hang around here for ten minutes. If you don’t call, I’ll try again later.”

When he hung up, his palm was sweaty. He dried it on his jeans, then turned to gaze across the open area of the mall. The nearest store on the left was a clothing boutique that catered to well-dressed toddlers, dressing them like miniature versions of their well-heeled parents. Directly across from it was a sporting goods place, and in the middle stood a jewelry kiosk. Listening to seconds ticking off slowly in his head, he scanned the people sitting on couches just past the kiosk, recognizing a few of his regular customers before movement drew his gaze back to the jewelry. It hadn’t been much-a swing of black curls lassoed into a ponytail-and he was sure there were other women in town with curly black hair even if he couldn’t think of any offhand.