The Given (14 page)

Trusting him, Kit reached out and they rose together to face off against the three men on the other side of the lot. None of them held a gun now.

Perhaps because of the police vehicle pulling to a stop between them.

CHAPTER SEVEN

T
he officer climbing from the driver's seat of the patrol car stared at the three men in the parking lot. His back was to Grif and Kit, though his partner certainly gave them a good once-over. Kit read his badge.
OFFICER
STOKES
.

“Let me guess,” Kit whispered to Grif once Officer Stokes glanced the other way. “Your phone call?”

“I figured I've perfected the Lone Angel act, so I decided to give Smart Angel a try,” Grif said as he casually shoved his hands into his pants pockets.

Kit had deposited her .22 in the pocket of her flared skirt as soon as she'd spotted the patrol car, but she knew its outline could be seen if one were looking close . . . and Larry was glaring at it pointedly. Yet, despite the hatred flashing in his dark eyes, he said nothing.

“We got a call that there was some trouble out here?” The first officer still hadn't turned their way but he was tall, and his broad shoulders were currently bunched. His arrival had done nothing to dissipate the tension in the parking lot, and he seemed to know it.

“No problem here,” replied the giant man, never taking his eyes off Grif.

The first officer turned to see what or who was so engaging, and if his shoulders had been tight before, they practically rose to his ears now.

Kit's heart dropped into her gut. “Hello, Dennis.”

Dennis inclined his head at her feeble wave, eyes shifting to Grif and then back to her, and as was the case recently, he shook his head and sighed.

“Why is it,” he finally asked, “that I only see the two of you together when there's trouble?”

“There's no trouble,” Grif said, jerking his chin at the men on the other side of the car. “Is there, Justin?”

“Nope,” the big guy said, crossing his arms over his chest. They looked like giant clubs. “No trouble at all.”

But Dennis was still looking at Kit.

“You're on patrol again?” Kit asked, wishing she could alleviate the weight of his look. It was also gratifying to see the men behind him shrink just a bit at they realized how well she knew him.

“Requested a transfer from Homicide after my leave ended.” Dennis shrugged, and then, unable to help himself, he added, “Getting shot was getting a bit old.”

He hadn't just been shot. He'd thrown himself in front of a bullet meant for Kit, and the rub for him was that Grif could've prevented the shot from being fired at all. Dennis would have died if Kit hadn't bartered with one of the Pures for his life; however, he didn't know that. All he knew was that after Grif was out of the picture, Kit had chosen to be alone rather than be with him.

“So what's going on?” he asked her, expression shuttered in professionalism.

Kit shrugged. “Just visiting a friend.”

“These guys your friends?” He jerked his head at the three men behind him.

“Sure. New friends, anyway,” the large man said affably, and Dennis turned full on him. “How you doin'? I'm Justin Allen. I'm the Life Enrichment Coordinator out here.”

“Life Enrichment Coordinator,” Dennis repeated, staring at the proffered hand so long that Justin finally withdrew it. Only then did Dennis look up. “What happened to your nose?”

Justin's eyes flashed to Grif as he touched his broken nose, and so did Officer Stokes's. Grif's expression remained carefully blank.

“I took a fall helping one of our residents out to the car. This car,” he said, and smiled at Kit and Grif despite his crooked nose.

Officer Stokes leaned to peer around Kit and Grif. “Who is it?”

“Oh, that's just Al,” she said, giving a little laugh, but her voice sounded unnatural even to her, and Dennis's eyes narrowed. Behind him, Justin broke into a less careful grin.

“Could we meet him?” said Officer Stokes.

“Meet him?” Kit asked.

Grif took her by the arm and pulled her to the side. If he noticed the way Dennis's jaw tightened when he touched Kit, he didn't show it.

“Mind if I approach your car?” Officer Stokes said.

Kit and Grif answered at the same time.

“Of course not—”

“Sure—”

Now Justin chuckled.

Officer Stokes drew near just as a groan sounded from the front seat. “Is this man okay?”

Al Zicaro's head popped up in the front seat so quickly that Officer Stokes took a full step back. “Sir? Are you all right?”

But Zicaro was squinting past him, rubbing his eyes like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. When he rose, Grif nodded and gave him a sheepish shrug. Zicaro broke into a giant grin and hurtled himself forward.

“Why, you old dog!” he shouted, using the car to steady himself before throwing his arms around Grif's shoulders. Zicaro pounded his back with surprising strength before pulling away to regard Grif in closer detail. “Just look at you. Either my eyes are bad or your genes are good, because you haven't changed a bit!”

“Hasn't he?” asked Justin from his post behind Dennis. Kit shot him a dirty look, but that just made his smile widen. Dennis noticed it, and his frown deepened.

“Nope,” Zicaro said, oblivious to the tension around him. He removed his bifocals and rubbed them on his shirt. “What's it been? Fifty years or so? Look at you, you look
good
!”

“Not quite that long, I don't think,” Grif muttered, then rolled his eyes at Stokes, as if to say,
These old-timers.

Officer Stokes relaxed enough to lean on the hood of the patrol car. “So if everyone's so friendly here, why did we get a call that there's trouble?”

“Sorry about that,” Justin said. “It was likely Mr. Blakely. He's our newest resident. We try to monitor the phone in his room, but sometimes he slips one by us. Guess we'll have to take it out altogether. We encourage our residents to be as independent as possible, but sometimes the elderly can be a harm . . . even to themselves.”

Kit filed away the lie, along with the knowledge that these men—no “caregivers”—didn't want the police nosing around. For now, it gave her and Grif the upper hand. At least, until Zicaro spoke again.

“Jiminy Crickets, I thought you were dead!” he exclaimed, still shaking his head as he reached back for his wheelchair. He plopped down, exhaling loudly. “We all did!”

“Why would you think that?” Officer Stokes asked, also likely wondering why the man in their car seemed to be only now recognizing Grif.

“Yeah,” said Justin cheerily. “Why?”

“Because Griffin Shaw has a knack for getting himself in sticky situations,” Dennis said, out of the blue. Kit froze. All three men behind him
beamed
.

“He does?” Larry asked, earning an elbow in the ribs from Eric.

“You mean ol' Griffin Shaw?” Justin said, drawing out the name. Grif sighed.

“Yup,” Dennis said, seemingly oblivious to the way the men were digesting this information. “And everyone around him, too.”

“Like who?” Justin asked, before jerking his head at Kit. “Like her?”

“Dennis,” Kit said, before he could say her name. “Can I talk to you for a moment, please? Privately.”

“Sorry. I'm on the clock,” he huffed, giving her and Grif one last glance before turning his back on them both. He jerked his head at Justin. “We're going to have to make sure there's nobody inside who needs help. It's procedure.”

“Of course,” Justin said magnanimously, gesturing to the building. He shot a wink at Zicaro, then put a finger to his chin like he'd just remembered something vital. “But I don't think the young lady signed in. If you'll be so kind as to accompany us?”

Kit didn't move.

“That's okay,” Dennis said, misreading her hesitancy. She could tell from the way his gaze darkened that he thought it had to do with him. “She looks like she's in a hurry.”

Kit almost breathed a sigh of relief.

“I'll sign in for her.”

And then she wanted to cry.

Justin clapped his approval, then pointed one of his sausage fingers at Zicaro. “Now, Al, you make sure you get back before curfew. We don't want to worry about you getting into any sticky situations . . . especially considering you're with Griffin Shaw.”

“Ol' Griffin Shaw,” said Larry, rocking happily on his heels.

“C'mon,” Dennis said, and without even looking at Kit, he and Justin turned toward the building. Officer Stokes gave Kit and Grif a polite nod, shut the door of the patrol car, and followed. The two orderlies, though, remained where they were. They watched Grif and Kit pile Zicaro and his wheelchair into her Duetto, memorizing Kit's license plate. Watching them drive off.

Filing it all away for later.

M
an, that was close,” Al Zicaro said as soon as they cleared the lot. He craned his chicken neck around, making sure they weren't being followed, face bright and eyes shining. Kit and Grif flanked him, shoulders hunched in the tight front seat. Feeling their gazes upon him, Zicaro turned back around. “What? I haven't been that close to being busted by the fuzz in years!”

“Why would they want to bust you?” Grif asked.

“Because they know I'm onto them,” Zicaro said, emphasizing each word.

Grif said, “I'm the one who called them.”

“And thank you for that,” Kit put in, peering around Zicaro to meet Grif's eye.

“Sure,” Grif replied, and couldn't help but add, “Gave you a chance to see your old buddy Dennis again.”

Kit stared straight ahead, jaw clenched, and Grif sighed. He shouldn't have said that. He could tell from Dennis's reaction that they weren't seeing each other, and it clearly wasn't by the other man's choice. Besides, she wasn't Grif's girl anymore. In fact, it felt like she belonged more to herself than ever before. But it still sent a white-hot pang soaring through his gut to see another man look at her with the same sort of hunger gnawing in his own belly.

“So
why
would the cops be after you?” he asked Zicaro, getting back on track.

Zicaro put his hands down his pants.

“Oh, God,” Kit said, gripping the wheel, eyes trained on the road.

But the old man just pulled out a plastic denture case, and shook it. Grif relaxed. He'd been wondering what was going on down there. “Because they've been keeping tabs on me, and they know I've got this.”

Kit glanced over, then immediately directed her car into the first strip mall they saw so that Zicaro could relate his whole story to them over three cups of overpriced coffee.

“The Sunset Retirement Community isn't just an end-of-life facility,” Zicaro began, once they were settled. Steam rose from their cups in comforting deceit. Nothing was settled; this was only respite. “It began as a retirement community, which is how I got there. But a year ago everything changed.”

“What changed?”

“Sunset was taken over by a new company. The workers were summarily fired and replaced by new staff. The caregivers changed overnight. Long-term residents were allowed to stay, because we had contracts, like leases, and I don't think they wanted to draw attention to themselves by turning a bunch of old geezers out on their behinds.” He shot them a winning smile. “We're predisposed to complain and have all the time in the world to do it. But they didn't allow any new retirees in after that.”

“Is that when Larry and Eric came along?” Kit asked, and was given a quick nod.

“And Justin.” Zicaro explained how he was rousted in the middle of the night and taken to the administrative office, where Justin quizzed him about his relationship with one Barbara DiMartino. “That's why I was so surprised when you said she was dead. Is it true? Did they kill her?”

Kit nodded, and reached out to give his hand a quick squeeze. “I know it's hard to hear, Al, and we're going to find out why, but just to be clear . . . they called her DiMartino? Not Barbara McCoy?”

“Yup, and that's when I knew something was fishy.” He turned to Grif. “But you know my history with the DiMartino crew. We weren't what you would call friendly.”

“You were what I might call downright antagonistic.”

Zicaro beamed.

“How long did Justin question you that night?” Kit asked, taking notes, ordering them in her mind.

Zicaro shook his head so that his neck-skin wobbled. “Not sure. But by the time it was over I was thirsty and tired, and would've said anything he wanted if he'd just let me go.”

“And what did he want?”

“Your guess is as good as mine! All I know is that they moved my room!”

“What do you mean they moved your room?”

Zicaro's eyes bugged. “Instead of returning me to my old room they took me to one on the second floor. That's where the overnight staff bunks up. And when I walked in? All my stuff was waiting for me. It looked as though I'd lived there for years.”

“Anything missing?” Kit asked, lips pursed.

“Hard to tell. All I know is that they trained cameras on me twenty-four/seven after that. Not that they said as much, of course, but I knew it. There was an alarm system on my suite door, my phone was tapped, and I even caught them searching my papers at night.” He winked at Kit. “That's when I stopped taking my meds.”

Zicaro didn't seem to notice Kit and Grif's shared look.

“I'm watched day and night,” he said, shaking his head. “I was essentially kidnapped, and now I'm never, under any circumstances, permitted to leave the grounds. I'm a hostage. A prisoner in my own home!”

“I dunno, Al,” Grif said, leaning back, folding his hands around his coffee cup. “Sounds like one of your own conspiracy stories.”