The Borrowed and Blue Murders (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (18 page)

“Molly, did you eat?” In the commotion, I’d forgotten about her breakfast.

She shook her head. “I don’t have time.”

“You have to eat.” In a flurry, worried that the FBI would think I was a bad mother for not feeding my child, I poured a glass of milk, handed it to her, reached into the fruit basket for a banana and told Nick to grab a cereal bar for her while I was slapping turkey and mayo onto the bread, retrieving the peanut butter sandwich from her lunch bag and replacing it with the turkey.

“I got turkey?”

“Yep. Want a pickle?” I felt the agents watching, resented their impatience. This was my home, my family, and I wasn’t going to skimp on Molly’s lunch just to suit them. I took my time wrapping the pickle even though I knew the bus would pull up any second. In fact, it was outside now, at the curb.

“Bye, Mom.” Molly had a milk mustache and a mouthful of banana. “Bye, Nick, bye, Luke. Bye, Uncle Tony and Uncle Sam—” she yelled. Eyeing the agents, she ran out the door, and I walked after her, waving at Pete, the driver, watching her scamper down the front steps and into the reassuring normalness of the big yellow bus.

F
OR OVER AN HOUR
, we sat sequestered in the dining room, sipping coffee, not saying much while the FBI agents took turns questioning us in the living room. Nick was steaming, barely controlling himself. He’d made irate phone calls, complaining about the method, the lack of courtesy, the attitude and demeanor of the agents, but neither his rank nor his contacts made any impression. The agents went methodically about their business and spent a huge amount of time with poor Tony, undoubtedly interrogating him ad nauseam about his contact with the victim. When it was my turn, I was appalled at the mess Tony and Sam had left, couldn’t help apologizing as I began to straighten up.

“Nick’s brothers are crashing here.” I picked an afghan off the floor, folded it, noticing Oliver curled up behind the easy chair.

“Ms. Hayes.” One of them wore glasses. “I’m Agent Buford, and this is Agent Morris.”

I nodded.

“What can you tell us about what happened to Tony Stiles?”

To Tony? What? I thought they were here about their dead colleague. “He was mugged.”

Agent Buford seemed to be in charge. He seemed to doubt my answer. “What were the circumstances? Was he robbed?”

Wait. Why were they asking these questions? “I don’t know for sure. You’d have to ask Tony.”

“But I asked you.”

I said nothing about Tony. “I thought you were here about the dead FBI agent.”

The agent frowned. “Ms. Hayes, do you know the penalties for impeding a federal investigation?”

Wait, was the man threatening me? Instantly, I was on my feet, indignant. “Agent Buffart—”

“Buford.”

“—Are you implying that I’m lying? I don’t take that lightly. You are in my home, sir—”

“Relax, Ms. Hayes.” His tone was patronizing, amused. His partner, a lean bald guy, watched attentively from my wingback, his face bland and bored. “Sit down.”

I didn’t.

“Please.”

I glared, but I sat.

“Let’s start again. Tell us what you know about the mugging.”

I shrugged. “Tony was mugged. He was the victim of a crime.” I emphasized
victim.

Buford’s voice remained calm, his eyes steady. “Go on.”

“That’s all. He was parking his brother’s car, alone in the middle of the night. I have no idea who did it or why.”

“Have you noticed any unusual objects in your home recently?”

What? “Of course. We have two guests—”

“Other than their belongings, I mean.”

So I didn’t have to tell him about Sam’s gun.

“No. What kind of unusual objects are you talking about?”

The agents exchanged a glance. “Possibly a small statue or vial. A cigar holder, maybe. Or a small package. Anything that could fit in, say—”

He paused and I waited to hear what word he’d use for
asshole.

“—your fist.”

Fist? No, I shook my head. I’d seen nothing like that.

“Can you tell us anything else about the mugging then? Anything?”

Again, I shook my head no. I didn’t repeat the threats the muggers had made or the search they’d conducted in Sam’s car. And I didn’t mention Eli or his late-night ephemeral visit that same night. I wasn’t at all sure why I wasn’t more forthcoming. True, I resented the federal agents, their abrupt manner and bullying attitudes. But I sensed that my reticence was due to something deeper, something involving greater loyalties. Tony and Eli were Nick’s brothers, Luke’s uncles. Almost like blood. My instincts told me it was up to Nick and Tony to reveal what they thought best. So, for better or worse, I withheld information from federal investigators. I wasn’t sure what the consequences of that might be, but I said nothing, made not a peep beyond the most basic facts.

W
HEN THE AGENTS LEFT
, it was still early, just after nine. I wanted to ask Nick if I should have said more, but he was remote and uncommunicative, sitting in the dining room, his dazed brothers beside him. I changed Luke, fed him, attached him to my body with the sling, and then the group of us, including the wounded and still wobbly Tony, ventured out for brunch. We sat at a table at Famous Deli, and mostly didn’t talk. Mostly, we chewed in silence, each nursing his or her own thoughts, emotions and omelet. At one point, Sam made an announcement.

“I’m going to stop at my car on the way back.” Sam chewed. “See for myself what they did to it.”

“They didn’t do anything to it,” Tony insisted. “They just looked.”

“I had some stuff in there. I’m going to check it out. And you should get that ugly mug looked at.”

More silence.

“Tony, maybe you should see a doctor today.” It was just a suggestion. His hairline was purplish yellow, his nose swollen. I wanted to wince when I looked at him.

“No, uh-uh.”

“But what if—”

“Zoe. Forget it. I’m fine.”

Nobody picked up the cause, so I let it go.

We finished eating. Nick, brooding, hadn’t said a single word.

Even when he’d offered to hold Luke, he’d done it wordlessly, with a gesture. We were all exhausted and feeling bruised, and walking home, I cradled Luke’s baby sling with one hand, Nick’s fingers with the other, and thought about how tired I was. I would forget Anna and her list, forget returning phone calls, forget every task on my to-do list. I would put Luke in his little portable chair and sink into a bubble bath, and then I would collapse in bed for a long, uninterrupted nap.

As we walked up the steps to the house, Tony was obviously sore. Holding his ribs, he leaned on the railing, catching his breath. Nick stopped to help him, so Luke and I went in alone.

And I was the first to see the upended furniture, emptied cabinets, hall closet contents tossed onto the floor. While we were out, somebody had come in and torn the house apart.

Without a word, I carried Luke into the living room, found his little chair, belted him in and gave him a teething ring. Behind me, Tony and Nick came in and, grasping what had happened, went ballistic. Nick rushed from room to room, cursing, occasionally calling my name. I didn’t answer, though. I kept my eyes ahead, my feet moving resolutely upstairs to start my bath.

I
HAD MY BATH
, but sadly, my nap was not to be. I lit candles in the bathroom and turned off the lights. I soaked for a while beside soft flickers, closing my eyes, letting steam and soapy bubbles work their magic. I emptied my brain, concentrating on heat, letting my muscles give in, relaxing them one at a time, inhaling the vanilla scent of melting wax. After a while, shards of memories came to the surface of my mind, and I didn’t fight them. I allowed them to drift by like flotsam on a river. I saw Bryce Edmond’s smashed skull. Agent Harris’ gaping wounds. Bonnie Osterman’s squat, hungry figure. Tony’s battered frame, stumbling through the front door. The FBI agents intruding and probing. And Eli. Beautiful Eli. Secretive Eli, sneaking through the shadows, in and out of bedrooms. I pictured him, a stranger creeping in the lamplight, holding baby Luke.

Suddenly, my eyes popped open. With absolute clarity, I was sure I knew the truth: It was Eli. Eli was the center of it all, had to be. Eli was the reason Tony had been mugged—the muggers had mistaken them. And Eli had visited us only in the middle of the night—why? Just to see Luke and take his picture? Doubtful. Obviously, Eli had other reasons. Such as finding something that Agent Harris left here or, maybe, leaving something here for safekeeping, or—who knew? But I was certain of one thing: Eli was involved with this mess, and Nick and his brothers knew or suspected it. I was certain that, just like me, they hadn’t mentioned Eli to the FBI. He might be a spy or an assassin. But, more important, Eli was blood.

When my skin had withered like a prune, I pulled the plug and got out of the tub, considering loyalties. What if Eli was actually involved in the agent’s murder? How far would Eli’s family go to protect him? Would Nick, a homicide detective, cover for him? Would he conceal evidence? Risk his career, not to mention his freedom? I wasn’t positive, but I thought, yes, he probably would. Rather than have his brother arrested for murder or worse, Nick would probably hide evidence. Wrapped in a towel, I wondered about my own role. Was I abetting a criminal? What was right or wrong here? What were my responsibilities and obligations? I was confused, uncertain about what I knew, much less sure of what I should do.

As I stepped into some comfy sweatpants, Nick came in, bringing Luke for another meal. Telling me not to worry, Nick sat with us as Luke nursed. Whoever had been here had been in a hurry, had made a mess but hadn’t done much damage or, apparently, taken anything. A window in the dining room had been broken; that was how they’d gotten in. Nick went on, reassuring me, making it sound like no big deal that yet another crime had been committed in our home.

When Nick finished his update, he stood. “Well, if you’re okay, I’ll go finish straightening—”

“Wait,” I interrupted. “Tell me about Eli.”

Nick stiffened. His eyes shifted just a tad. “Eli?” Nick tried to sound confused.

“Please, Nick. Don’t pretend it’s all coincidence.”

“What are you talking about?” He sat again, blinking too fast.

“What am I talking about? Your brother Eli? Eli the former Ranger? Eli who was trained in Special Ops? You know, Eli the trained killer and suspected undercover agent is in town just when, by chance, a federal agent is cut open on your back porch. Then, the very night I find Eli skulking around in the dark, your brother Tony is mugged and threatened and searched by people who think he has something they want. The next morning the FBI shows up, and that same day the house is ransacked by people who are obviously convinced that something they want is here.”

“And you think this is about Eli?”

I met his eyes, didn’t say a word.

“Zoe, you’re stressed out. Anyone would be.”

“Do not condescend to me, Nick. You’re the one who told me the stories about Eli. That he was trained to be invisible, to eliminate problems and disappear. No one really buys the idea that he’s a freelance photographer—”

“Photojournalism”

I frowned at him.

“Okay. To tell the truth, Tony and I were just talking about this with Sam.”

“Sam’s back?”

Nick nodded. “His car is apparently undamaged.”

“So?”

Nick’s face was grim. “So. Tony is convinced that Eli has nothing to do with any of this. He insists that Eli has grown up and is just as he claims, traveling the world to cover interesting journalistic stories.”

“And you? What do you think?”

Nick sighed. “I guess it’s possible that Eli might have settled down. But I doubt it. The truth is Eli has a side to him …Let’s just say I wouldn’t be surprised if he were involved. Like you said, he’s had the training. He knows how to kill. And he’s capable of it. Sam thinks Eli’s some kind of covert agent, but he can’t begin to guess for whom.”

I pictured Eli, his strong hands. Dangerous hands. Holding my baby.

That same baby had fallen asleep in my arms. I carried him to his crib and tucked him in. Nick watched, waiting for me to say something, but I didn’t until we were out of the room.

“No matter what”—I met Nick’s eyes—”this is our home. It’s the place where our children live. If Eli has any involvement, I don’t care if he’s a federal agent or a spy or a photographer or your brother. I don’t care who he is. He needs to stay away or, I swear, I’ll turn him in myself.”

Nick reached for me, held me close, kissed my forehead. “I know.”

We stood in the hallway, hugging, but, even then, I wasn’t sure where Nick’s loyalties lay. I thought about Eli, the possibility that he was some kind of covert government agent, whatever that meant, and questions rushed through my mind. But with my head pressed against Nick’s shoulder and my body enfolded in his arms, I couldn’t ask them. I couldn’t find the words.

W
E JOINED
T
ONY AND
Sam in the living room. Tony sat in the wingback, one leg twitching, but he couldn’t stay still. He popped up, moved a pillow, sat, twitched, got up again, straightened a cushion. Sam sprawled in the recliner, stroking Oliver, sucking a beer.

“We set all the furniture straight.”

Obviously, Sam had finished helping. Tony paced, circling the room, eyes darting around my knickknacks, making me nervous. “Looking for something, Tony?”

“What?” He sat again. “No, nothing. Just trying to, you know, figure out what they were looking for. If anything’s missing.”

I went to the shelves, began replacing collectibles. The Japanese doll from Uncle Dave had toppled in its glass case, which was on its side on the floor. Great-grandma Bailey’s mortar and pestle had separated and rolled behind and under the sofa. A Wedgwood vase, amazingly undamaged, sat upside down beside it. Nick helped me and, as we worked, the brothers talked.