I deserved it.
The crowd thinned out quickly, and soon I was the only one left by the grave. I swallowed down the hard knot of guilt in my throat, walked over to Peter’s portrait, and studied his smiling face again.
Peter Vargas had been a stand-up guy who loved his family more than anything else. He was always picking up books, chocolates, and other small gifts for Isabelle, just because he wanted to do something nice for his wife. He’d been so proud when Leo had been born, and he’d shown me dozens of photos of his son over the years. Ever since Bria and I had gotten together, Peter had always kidded around with me, saying that it was time for me to start my own family. I’d laughed and told him maybe I would someday.
All of Peter’s somedays were over.
He’d had a family, and he’d been taken away from them. He’d never buy Isabelle a present again or read his son a bedtime story or do any of the other small, thoughtful things that made a family, well, a family.
Hot, sour bile rose in my throat at the unfairness of it all, but I choked it down. I didn’t get to feel sad or sorry for myself. Not anymore. Never again.
Instead, I stared at Peter’s portrait, my gaze locked with his distant, frozen one. “I’ll do everything I can to watch out for your family,” I said in a hoarse voice. “It’s the least I can do for you.”
It was the same promise I’d made at the graves of all the other guards who’d been killed during the bank robbery. And just like with all the others, it didn’t make me feel any better. Peter and the other guards were still dead, and nothing I said or did would change that or take away their families’ pain and grief.
But it was all I could do. So I nodded at Peter’s portrait a final time and left the grave, carrying my guilt and heartache with me, the way I always would now.
4
The Vargas home was a nice two-story house in a new subdivision, not too far away from Jo-Jo Deveraux’s beauty salon. It was situated on top of a small hill at the end of a cul-de-sac, the first one to be finished in the neighborhood, although the framework for two other houses had been erected nearby. Everyone else had already arrived, filling the cul-de-sac, and I had to park down at the very end of the street behind a black SUV.
I started to get out of the car but stopped and stared at the vehicle in front of mine. I pulled out my phone and called up the photo I’d taken of the SUV outside the bank earlier today. Sure enough, the license plates matched. Bart the Butcher was here.
I frowned. Stuart Mosley carefully screened all the bank guards, making sure that they didn’t have any bad habits or vices that might affect their job performance or compromise bank security. Peter Vargas had worked at the bank for years, and he’d been squeaky clean from top to bottom. There was no way Peter had been involved with someone as shady as Bart Wilcox, but here the bookie was, all the same, at the man’s house right after his funeral.
I wasn’t as insanely paranoid as Gin, but it was obvious that something was going on here—something bad.
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, thinking. Then I got out of the car, went around to the back, and popped open the trunk, revealing several black cases. I glanced around, making sure no one was out on the street watching me, then opened one case, pulled out a loaded gun, and stuck it into my trench-coat pocket, along with an extra clip of ammo.
Was taking a gun to a mourners’ gathering in poor taste? Absolutely. But in Ashland, it was always better to be safe than sorry, even at a funeral.
I shut the trunk, locked my car, and headed toward the Vargas house.
It was your typical suburban home, painted a light, cheerful blue, with white shutters and a wide, white wraparound porch. The attached garage was also blue, with a white metal door that was rolled up, showing a minivan and a sedan inside, Isabelle’s and Peter’s vehicles. I stepped onto the lawn and headed up the hill toward the front porch steps—
Crunch.
My foot slipped on something hard and metal, and I had to windmill my arms to keep from falling on my ass. It took me a few seconds to regain my balance. I looked down to see that I’d stepped on a bright red toy fire truck half hidden in the thick grass. A couple of plastic firefighters lay next to it, along with the tiny figure of a grinning Dalmatian. Still more toys, everything from foam footballs to stuffed animals to building blocks, were scattered throughout the yard. Cruel reminders of a little boy who didn’t have a father to play with him anymore.
I carefully stepped over the fire truck, walked up the rest of the lawn, and trudged up the front-porch steps. Through the wide picture windows, I could see people moving inside the house, eating, drinking, and talking somberly. More guilt and tension surged through me, tying my stomach into knots. This was the very last place I wanted to be, but Mosley had insisted, so I reached for the knob so I could go inside and pay my respects to Isabelle again—
“You said you would have my money today,” a low voice growled.
“And I will! I swear I will!” another voice, higher and whinier, chimed in. “Only I’ll have it tomorrow instead. Or in another day or two at the very latest.”
I knew a shakedown when I heard one. The voices were coming from around the far side of the porch, so I moved away from the front door and headed in that direction, walking slowly so no one would hear my wing tips tapping against the wooden floorboards. I reached the end of the porch, eased up, and peered around the corner.
Bart the Butcher was leaning against the white porch railing, still in his dark gray suit, his gold rings sparkling in the winter sun. Two giant goons, also in gray suits, flanked him, their arms crossed over their chests in their best tough-guy intimidation poses. But Bart didn’t need them to intimidate anyone. He was plenty menacing all on his own.
And he was currently menacing Paul Vargas.
Paul was standing in front of the other giant, shifting back and forth on his feet and making the floorboards creak under his weight. Bart gave him a hard, flat stare that had Paul slowly backing away from him.
The crowd thinned out quickly, and soon I was the only one left by the grave. I swallowed down the hard knot of guilt in my throat, walked over to Peter’s portrait, and studied his smiling face again.
Peter Vargas had been a stand-up guy who loved his family more than anything else. He was always picking up books, chocolates, and other small gifts for Isabelle, just because he wanted to do something nice for his wife. He’d been so proud when Leo had been born, and he’d shown me dozens of photos of his son over the years. Ever since Bria and I had gotten together, Peter had always kidded around with me, saying that it was time for me to start my own family. I’d laughed and told him maybe I would someday.
All of Peter’s somedays were over.
He’d had a family, and he’d been taken away from them. He’d never buy Isabelle a present again or read his son a bedtime story or do any of the other small, thoughtful things that made a family, well, a family.
Hot, sour bile rose in my throat at the unfairness of it all, but I choked it down. I didn’t get to feel sad or sorry for myself. Not anymore. Never again.
Instead, I stared at Peter’s portrait, my gaze locked with his distant, frozen one. “I’ll do everything I can to watch out for your family,” I said in a hoarse voice. “It’s the least I can do for you.”
It was the same promise I’d made at the graves of all the other guards who’d been killed during the bank robbery. And just like with all the others, it didn’t make me feel any better. Peter and the other guards were still dead, and nothing I said or did would change that or take away their families’ pain and grief.
But it was all I could do. So I nodded at Peter’s portrait a final time and left the grave, carrying my guilt and heartache with me, the way I always would now.
4
The Vargas home was a nice two-story house in a new subdivision, not too far away from Jo-Jo Deveraux’s beauty salon. It was situated on top of a small hill at the end of a cul-de-sac, the first one to be finished in the neighborhood, although the framework for two other houses had been erected nearby. Everyone else had already arrived, filling the cul-de-sac, and I had to park down at the very end of the street behind a black SUV.
I started to get out of the car but stopped and stared at the vehicle in front of mine. I pulled out my phone and called up the photo I’d taken of the SUV outside the bank earlier today. Sure enough, the license plates matched. Bart the Butcher was here.
I frowned. Stuart Mosley carefully screened all the bank guards, making sure that they didn’t have any bad habits or vices that might affect their job performance or compromise bank security. Peter Vargas had worked at the bank for years, and he’d been squeaky clean from top to bottom. There was no way Peter had been involved with someone as shady as Bart Wilcox, but here the bookie was, all the same, at the man’s house right after his funeral.
I wasn’t as insanely paranoid as Gin, but it was obvious that something was going on here—something bad.
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, thinking. Then I got out of the car, went around to the back, and popped open the trunk, revealing several black cases. I glanced around, making sure no one was out on the street watching me, then opened one case, pulled out a loaded gun, and stuck it into my trench-coat pocket, along with an extra clip of ammo.
Was taking a gun to a mourners’ gathering in poor taste? Absolutely. But in Ashland, it was always better to be safe than sorry, even at a funeral.
I shut the trunk, locked my car, and headed toward the Vargas house.
It was your typical suburban home, painted a light, cheerful blue, with white shutters and a wide, white wraparound porch. The attached garage was also blue, with a white metal door that was rolled up, showing a minivan and a sedan inside, Isabelle’s and Peter’s vehicles. I stepped onto the lawn and headed up the hill toward the front porch steps—
Crunch.
My foot slipped on something hard and metal, and I had to windmill my arms to keep from falling on my ass. It took me a few seconds to regain my balance. I looked down to see that I’d stepped on a bright red toy fire truck half hidden in the thick grass. A couple of plastic firefighters lay next to it, along with the tiny figure of a grinning Dalmatian. Still more toys, everything from foam footballs to stuffed animals to building blocks, were scattered throughout the yard. Cruel reminders of a little boy who didn’t have a father to play with him anymore.
I carefully stepped over the fire truck, walked up the rest of the lawn, and trudged up the front-porch steps. Through the wide picture windows, I could see people moving inside the house, eating, drinking, and talking somberly. More guilt and tension surged through me, tying my stomach into knots. This was the very last place I wanted to be, but Mosley had insisted, so I reached for the knob so I could go inside and pay my respects to Isabelle again—
“You said you would have my money today,” a low voice growled.
“And I will! I swear I will!” another voice, higher and whinier, chimed in. “Only I’ll have it tomorrow instead. Or in another day or two at the very latest.”
I knew a shakedown when I heard one. The voices were coming from around the far side of the porch, so I moved away from the front door and headed in that direction, walking slowly so no one would hear my wing tips tapping against the wooden floorboards. I reached the end of the porch, eased up, and peered around the corner.
Bart the Butcher was leaning against the white porch railing, still in his dark gray suit, his gold rings sparkling in the winter sun. Two giant goons, also in gray suits, flanked him, their arms crossed over their chests in their best tough-guy intimidation poses. But Bart didn’t need them to intimidate anyone. He was plenty menacing all on his own.
And he was currently menacing Paul Vargas.
Paul was standing in front of the other giant, shifting back and forth on his feet and making the floorboards creak under his weight. Bart gave him a hard, flat stare that had Paul slowly backing away from him.
