The Borrowed and Blue Murders (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (16 page)

Sam feigned innocence, tried to look baffled. “When, then?”

“Think about it.”

Tensions were soaring. I tried to diffuse them. “Where’s Tony?”

Nick and Sam were in a staring match. Neither looked at me. But Nick answered without moving his mouth, “Tony’s looking for a parking space.”

Oh. I wished he’d get here. He might have a clue about what was going on.

“Nick, you’re right. I forgot all about that—”

“Just don’t pretend it never happened.”

“I forgot; that’s all. Look, I made it up to him; he got every dime back. It was a misunderstanding.”

“Did he?”

“Yes. Every last one.”

They were eyeball-to-eyeball now. What the hell were they talking about? Had Sam bilked Eli out of some money?

“You know, you’re probably the reason Eli took off. He probably figured he couldn’t afford to see his brother Sam again.”

“Oh, fuck off. Eli and I are totally cool. It was a loan.”

“Not the way I heard it. A loan is made willingly; you don’t just take money.”

“How was I supposed to ask him if I couldn’t find him? Besides, I knew he’d lend me the cash if I asked him. And I paid him back. With interest.”

“Did you now. All of it?”

“Yes. I swear. This—him taking off again—had nothing to do with me. You know him. How he is. Eli never sticks around. He’s probably undercover, working a case or something—”

I couldn’t stand it anymore. “What’s going on? What are you two arguing about?”

Two faces turned to me as if surprised that I was there. They stared mutely.

“Let’s all have some coffee.” I went into the kitchen, taking Nick by the hand. From the way their tempers were flaring, they’d both had enough other liquids for the night.

C
OFFEE SEEMED TO BE
the cure for the flare-up. Even as it brewed, Sam and Nick cooled off, laughing as they recalled Eli stories.

After being trained in Special Operations in the military, he’d floundered for a while. He’d worked briefly as a repo man, sneaking onto properties, taking cars from people whose payments had lapsed. Sam relished the tales of Eli’s narrow escapes when a few men discovered him in the process. One apparently ended up in his carport impossibly tangled in the garden hose. Another owned guard dogs, which happened to fall asleep after eating Eli’s special- recipe hamburgers, thus failing to protect the automobile.

The stories went on, each accompanied by gulps of coffee and bites of glazed donuts, each topping the other. Eli’s elusive identity, his vague career progressing from repo man to possibly undercover cop. To maybe secret agent or even government spy. I could see how the labels could fit Eli, his easy movements and taunting eyes. But most of what Nick and Sam said was playful conjecture, affectionate lore they themselves had created. Listening to them, trying to sift facts from fantasy, I gathered that Eli had served with the Army Rangers and now professed to pursue a career in photojournalism. A freelancer, he traveled constantly, followed story to story without forming ties or planting roots. The brothers, of course, saw this job as a perfect cover for a CIA or Homeland Security or FDA or any other brand of secret agent.

With Eli’s training, they also speculated that he’d make a perfect assassin.

They went on recounting anecdotes, and, chewing a donut, I thought about Eli, dangerous, dressed all in black, carrying a knife in his waistband. And I realized that, yes, Eli might actually be an undercover agent. In fact, he might be working on a case now. Here, in our area. Maybe he was working for the CIA or Homeland Security. And—oh God—maybe he’d been working with other government agents. Like Jennifer Harris from Homeland Security, who’d just coincidentally been found dead on my patio. I took a gulp, almost choked on my coffee, trying to clear my thoughts.

But it made sense, didn’t it? Eli might not be here for our wedding or to meet our baby; he might be here for work. Maybe he was supposed to have been Agent Harris’ contact. Or maybe—the thought made my heart stop, but there it was: the other possibility. Eli might not have been her contact; he might have been her killer.

No. Good God. I shut my eyes, had to stop this line of thinking. Eli wasn’t an assassin. He was Nick’s kid brother, his blood. Eli’s eyes danced—would a hit man have eyes that could polka? And Eli looked like Nick; his voice sounded, his touch felt, like Nick’s. A man like Nick couldn’t—no, correction: He could. But he wouldn’t be a professional killer. I told myself that Eli was a photographer, that the only thing he shot was pictures. That my suspicions were the result of the late hour and the exaggerated tales.

And the tales were still being told. Sam was recounting Eli’s skill with a knife, giving details about the way he could carve up a Thanksgiving turkey, whittle a walking stick, bone a bluefish, gut a deer, amputate a wounded buddy’s arm, and the list was just getting started when he was interrupted by a knock at the door.

It had to be Tony. Finally. It had taken him an awfully long time to find a parking spot. Nick started to get up, but I was closer to the door, so I was the one who opened it. And I was the one who screamed.

T
ONY COULD BARELY STAND;
his face was covered with blood. Blood spilled from a cut at his hairline, clumped around a nasty gash behind his ear, oozed out of split lips. His left eyebrow and his nostrils were coated with a dark red crust. I reached out to help him inside as Nick appeared, responding to my shriek. Sam stood behind Nick, his mouth hanging open, squeezing a donut.

Sam was the first to speak. “Holy shit. What the hell?”

Stumbling into the foyer, Tony tossed Sam his car keys. “What does it look like? I stopped and got a makeover.” Holding his ribs, he let himself fall against Nick; together they hobbled down the hall to the easy chair in the living room. I got some ice, the first-aid kit, a few damp washcloths, and followed, began dabbing away blood, putting cool pressure on Tony’s wounds. The cuts were long but not deep; he might not need stitches. I gave him an ice pack for his eyebrow. The whole time I was giving first aid, Nick kept asking questions.

“Who did this? Where did it happen?” Somehow, Nick had gotten his jacket on, was ready to gather a posse and go out and search.

“Forget it, Nick.” Tony’s words were distorted; his lips didn’t want to move.

“Tell me what happened.”

“Two guys hit me.”

“What did they look like?”

“I don’t know. They were young. White—”

“Tall? Short? What were they wearing?”

“Nick, it’s no use. They’re gone. Don’t even bother—”

“Don’t tell me what to do. I can get cars combing the area in two minutes—”

“Easy, Nick.” Sam put a hand on Nick’s arm, interrupting. “Everybody take it easy. Tony, just tell us what happened.”

Tony watched Nick with his one open eye. “I don’t know. I got a great spot. I parked at the corner, right on Fifth Street. I got out, locked the car, and boom.”

“Boom?”

“I went about three steps and something hit me, boom, smack in the side of the head.” He touched the cut near his ear and winced.

Nick frowned. “I’m going to call it in.” He started for his phone, but Tony grabbed his arm.

“Forget it, Nick. It was just a mugging.”

Nick frowned. “Just a mugging?”

“They happen every day around here. You know that. I don’t feel like dealing with all those cops and their questions.”

“Really.” Nick crossed his arms. “All those cops are trying to protect people like you—”

“Hey, Nick. Don’t take it personally.” Tony winced as I pressed on his sore cheek. “It’s just not worth it; the cops never find guys like these.”

Oops, Nick would definitely take that personally. And, sure enough, Nick pulled over a wingback chair and sat facing Tony as if preparing for an interrogation. “So, you’re an expert on police effectiveness?”

“Come on, Nick.” Tony closed his eyes as I took away the ice pack and cleaned his eyebrow. “I’m just not up to it, okay?”

“So, tell me again. You’d just parked Sam’s brand-new Lexus. You were only three steps away from it when two young white guys mugged you. But for some reason, although they must have seen you get out of a late-model, top-of-the-line car, they didn’t take the car keys.”

“Wait—that doesn’t make sense, does it?” Sam pulled the other wingback up beside Nick’s. “You’d think they’d take the car.”

Tony was trembling; I got an afghan off the sofa, wrapped it around him. “Nick,” I said. “He might be in shock.”

“He’ll be all right.” Nick didn’t look at me. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, waiting.

Tony’s good eye darted from Nick to Sam. “They took the keys.”

Sam shook his head. “But you have them. You said—”

“They took them and one guy went into the car while the other one kept me down.”

“What did he do in the car?” Nick was in his element, probing. “Could you see him?”

“He was looking for something. He went into the glove box, flashed a light under the seats. Opened the hood, the trunk.”

“Oh shit.” Sam was worried. “They didn’t, like, plant a bomb or anything?”

We all looked at Sam. Why would he think somebody might plant a bomb in his car? Where did the idea come from?

“I didn’t see anything. They seemed to be looking for something, not leaving something.”

“And they didn’t take the car.”

“No, Sam. Your car’s fine, right where I left it.”

“And they just gave you the keys back? Like, ‘thanks, here are the keys’?”

“They dropped them on the ground.”

“So they didn’t take the car,” Nick pressed. “What did they take?”

Tony shrugged. “I’m not sure. They searched me. They emptied my pockets and went through my wallet. I suppose they took the usual. My cash.”

Grimacing, Tony leaned forward, reached into his pant pocket and retrieved his wallet. Nick reached for it.

“You mean they gave the wallet back?” Again, Sam was confused.

Tony shivered. “Just like the keys. When they were done, they threw it on the ground. I must have picked up everything. I don’t really remember.”

“Your credit cards are here. And they apparently missed this.”

Tony gaped at the wad of cash in Nick’s hand. “Look, Nick, I don’t know what you’re trying to imply. I don’t have any idea who those animals were and I don’t have a clue what they wanted.”

“Nick.” I put my arm around Tony. “Tony should see a doctor—”

“Uh-uh, no, ma’am, no way.” Tony shook his head. “No doctors, no police, no thank you. I’ll be fine.” He held the ice pack to his eyebrow. “Aren’t I supposed to get a steak for this?”

“Fat chance.” Sam grunted. “Any steak around here, we’re not wasting it on your sorry eye.”

“As usual, Sam, your heart is outweighed only by your stomach.” Tony struggled, even then, to hold his own.

“Look. I always said you should learn to fight. You got to be tough, especially considering your special preferences.”

“Lay off, Sam.” I stood close to Tony, protecting him. “If he’d fought back, they might have killed him.”

Sam winked at me, no doubt intending to remind me that, unlike Tony, he was straight and lustful, but when his eyelid flickered, it looked uncontrolled, like he might have a bug in his eye.

“Did they say anything?” Nick went on with his investigation.

“Yeah.” Tony nodded. “It was weird. They asked, ‘Where is it?’ Told me I had no idea what I’d gotten into, that I’d better hand it over.” He looked from Nick to Sam, from Sam to me, then back at Nick. “I have no idea what they were talking about.”

“Repeat exactly what they said.”

“I can’t exactly. They were punching me and then I was on the ground, trying to get them off me.”

“Okay.” Nick rolled his eyes, impatient. “Just repeat what you remember.”

Tony shook his head. “Like I said. They wanted to know where ‘it’ was. The heavier one kept telling me to give it up. I told them I had no idea what they were talking about. I asked what they wanted. They just kept repeating, ‘Give it up.’ And, ‘Where the fuck is it?’ And when they finally decided I didn’t have whatever it was on me, they said they’d be back and I’d better find it because until I gave it to them, they were going to make my life hell.”

For a moment, we were all quiet. Nick stood, turned toward the wall and walked away from us. At the wall, he turned back to us. We watched him, waiting for his conclusions. “Eli’s in town.” That was all he said.

T
ONY’S JAW DROPPED.
“W
HAT?”
He started to smile but stopped, put a hand to his bloody lips. “Eli? Where? Wait—how do you know? Did you see him? Was he here?”

Nick didn’t answer. He looked at Sam, who met his eyes with complete comprehension. Apparently, Tony and I were missing something.

Sam nodded. “He’s right, Tony. Eli and you are only a few years apart. You look alike, especially in the dark.”

Tony leaned back against the headrest. “So you think they mistook me for Eli?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” Nick shrugged. “Everyone got us confused as kids, but especially you two. And, if they thought you were Eli, well, who knows who they were or what they wanted? You know Eli.”

“Shit.” Sam shook his head. “Nick’s right. If those guys thought you were Eli, it would explain everything. Who knows what he’s working on? Who knows what he might be carrying? We assume it’s small, since they thought you had it on you. Could be some secret formula. A hit list. Hell, could be some new micro-biological weapon or a chemical. Who knows what Eli might have on him?”

Well, I thought, he might have a knife. At that moment, as I was taping gauze behind Tony’s ear, it occurred to me that the mugging was Tony’s second tussle; he’d also been accosted days before by the dead agent. A question tickled the back of my mind, some fragment of a thought, but Tony was asking me about Eli, wanting to hear all about his clandestine visit, and I had to tell the story all over again. Nick sat on the sofa, frowning in thought, and Sam poured brandy and passed us each a snifter. One snort wouldn’t hurt Luke, I thought, and I took a long swallow, closed my eyes, felt the soothing heat sliding down, warming my belly. And, for a while, although I’d sensed it had been important, my question slipped from my mind.