Mistaken for the Mob. Ginny Aiken
heels clicked toward them.
“Special Agent Prophet. In my office. Now.”
J.Z. groaned. Once upon a time, Eliza Roberts had voiced his name in sweet, loving tones. Not anymore. He’d never felt the truth of the old chestnut about women scorned until he broke up with her after she demanded more than he was ready to offer.
He shook his head and caught the glee in Dan’s brown eyes as he entered his superior officer’s cubicle. Eliza had clawed her way up to the position he turned down just before their breakup. The way he figured, she did it to spite him. But it didn’t bother him. He had turned it down first. Pushing papers appealed to him as much as a case of Montezuma’s revenge during a worldwide Imodium shortage.
When Eliza closed her office door, J.Z. gave up hope of a neutral encounter. She was out for bear. He might as well have Smokey, Yogi or Boo-boo written across his chest.
He couldn’t wait to get away. “What’s up?”
Eliza rounded her desk then sat in her expensive and very new leather chair. The Bureau didn’t provide that kind of luxury. She must have bought it to make it look as if she’d wormed the perk from the higher-ups. J.Z. was glad he’d noticed her less appealing attributes and cleared out of their relationship before he wound up with heel marks down his back—and heart.
“Well?” he prodded.
She handed him three pieces of paper. “Another nursing home hit.”
Great. As he scanned the pages, a familiar name jumped out. “Carlo Papparelli? As in Laundromat Jr.? Mat, the mob moneyman?”
“The one and only.”
“No way. The Gemmellis had him gunned down a week ago. The Philly P.D. got Joey-O behind bars for it, too. Didn’t they?”
“Read ’em and weep.”
He did—read the papers, that is—he’d never waste a tear on a mobster. “I don’t get it. I heard the family’d shipped the body back to the old country for burial.”
“Read on.”
He did. And frowned. “What is this? Papparelli was only fifty or so. What was he doing in an old folks’ home? Oh, who cares? What really went down?”
“That, J.Z., is the most intriguing detail.” She pointed to the paper in his left hand. “There’s Maryanne Wellborn’s e-mail ordering the hit. In your right hand, you have his death certificate—but not for a week ago. He died day before yesterday. And the cause of death is a stroke, not the bullets we know about. No autopsy. The family refused.”
“This clinches it. She’s as dirty as they come. She’s mixed up with either the Gemmellis or the Verdis and took out the Laundromat. But how’d Mat slither into the nursing home when he was supposed to be dead? How can this librarian get away with all this? Does she have doctors on the take? Is the coroner in on the kill-the-rich-old-folks-for-their-bucks scam, too?”
Eliza smirked. “Don’t you think finding those answers is a field agent’s job? Your much-loved field job. You know…what you’re paid to do.”
Something in her voice made him ask, “Do you doubt I can do it?”
She waved. “Of course not—ordinarily.”
“Ordinarily?” His stomach plummeted. “What do you mean?”
The back of J.Z.’s neck prickled at the gleam in her blue eyes. When she pursed her lips and tapped her polished nails on the desktop, his gut churned. When she stood and leaned toward him over her desk, his survival instinct compelled him to run.
But he couldn’t.
“There is one tiny thing, J.Z.,” his Supervising Special Agent said. “You know that problem you have with rules?”
Since he’d yet to meet the rule he wouldn’t get around for the sake of justice, J.Z. shrugged. He always got the job done. Nothing else mattered.
“Well,” Eliza went on, “we’re going to do things my way this time. This case will be investigated by the book. You got that?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That since you recently went off like a half-cocked shotgun—again—and this case involves your preferred target—the mob—I will yank your badge and gun if you pull one of your stunts on my watch.”
“Come again?”
Her eyes narrowed and her lips thinned. “I mean it, J.Z. You’re off the case if you cross the line. And if you’re half as smart as you like to think, you’ll believe me. I have the power now.”
Blood roared in his ears. She’d known just how to hit him.
How could he ever have found her attractive? These days, he only saw the spite in her glare; he only heard the gloating in her voice.
“So you want a pound of my flesh.”
She looked away. “Something like that.”
He turned and opened the door, his rage barely leashed. “I’d be careful if I were you. Blue-eyed redheads don’t look good with pea-green skin.”
Her voice, low and nasty, made him pause. “One toe over the line, J.Z., and you’re out. Got it?”
“Loud and clear, boss.”
He made for the bank of elevators where Dan slouched against the wall, busy charming the new girl from the secretarial pool.
J.Z. asked, “The permits?”
Dan patted his jacketed chest. “All set.” He then arched an eyebrow. “Your mood took a different turn. It’s safe to say you didn’t kiss and make up with the dragon lady.”
J.Z. ignored the comment. “Need to pack?”
Dan pushed the elevator call button. “You know I keep a bag in the trunk of my car.”
“Let’s go.” J.Z. followed Dan into the elevator. As the silver doors closed out the disappointed young woman, Dan faced J.Z.
J.Z. held up a hand; with the other, he punched the button. “Don’t say it.”
“I did warn you before you started dating her. You can be as charming and kind as you want, but you can’t get involved with coworkers. It’ll smack you in the face sooner or later. Keep business and pleasure far, far apart, I say.”
Exhaustion hit all of a sudden. “Just drop it.”
Dan stepped out of the elevator. “It’s just that when you make a mistake, Prophet, you really make a doozy.”
J.Z. followed the younger man to the street. Dan’s words continued to mock him. The Prophet family was known for their mistakes. And as Dan had put it, whenever they made one, it was of the doozy variety. J.Z. was determined to stop making mistakes.
He would have to take extra care this time, if for nothing else than to avoid Eliza’s payback. Because, without a doubt, he was going to nail Maryanne Wellborn for the murders.
Even if it killed him. And it might. If Eliza grounded him, the failure would do him in.
“Happy Birthday, dear Stanley…Happy Birthday to you!”
As the residents of New Camden’s Peaceful Meadows Residence and Nursing Center sang to her father, the guilt Maryanne Wellborn had carried for months began to lessen. Maybe Dad had been right to insist on the move into the multilevel care facility.
“I want to be where the action is, Cookie,” he’d argued, roguish grin in full bloom. “All the—” he winked “—dudes and babes are there, the ones old enough to speak my language, that is.”
Maryanne had wanted to care for her only surviving parent at home—his home. But Stan Wellborn’s obstinacy rivaled