Fugitive Heart - By Bonnie Dee Page 0,8
Sam.” She leaned toward him, her forehead furrowed. “I wonder if he’s dead and that’s why he dropped out of sight. The detective said he’d done all he could. He even gave back some of the money I paid him.”
Did the guy give a refund because he felt guilty about taking money from another source to drop the case, or was it his client’s cute looks? Maybe he’d been warned off, or maybe now he worked for the other side.
“That’s a strange story. How long ago did you hire him?”
“Two months.”
No, the detective hadn’t ratted her out to the Espositos, or they’d be swarming Arnesdale by now. They moved quickly. Nick could breathe again. “Did the detective give you names?”
“You mean of the friend who got him in trouble? Yeah. Nick Ross.”
Crap. Okay. “Sam Allen” knew that guy fairly well.
There’d been a single call from Bert Esposito, the last one Nick had gotten before ditching his name and old cell phone and life. “You and I’ve got some history, so I’m going to give you a chance. Find Elliot Jensen, get back what he took from us, and maybe you can keep your balls and brains.” That call had set Nick running. Well, no, actually the message from the bastard Elliot had come first. Nick had charged over there only to discover the guy ransacking Elliot’s apartment. That confrontation had been the real start to the nightmare.
If only Nick could get exact figures, find out how much damage Elliot had done, he’d get an idea of how much effort they’d put into eliminating loose threads like Nick and Elliot. It was just business, after all. Personal vengeance, honor—they weren’t going to squander real resources on that kind of nonsense unless the betrayal became public knowledge. That kind of bad PR required a cleanup campaign.
Nick’s father, Peter Rossi, for instance, hadn’t been as discreet about his betrayal of the Espositos, and they found out soon after he dropped the “i”, became Peter Ross, and tried to retire. Nick had learned his lesson watching what the Espositos had done to his father when he tried to break ties with his criminal family.
“Um, Sam? Are you okay? You look kind of grim,” Ames said.
Nick/Sam smiled. “Just tired. That’s why I’m here after all. Retreat.”
She wrinkled her nose. “This place is a lot of work for someone who’s tired. And look at that, you’re covered with dirt. Have you been digging for treasure in the basement?”
He gave a startled laugh. “What? Is that something you and your brother used to do?”
Her answering grin flashed the dimple in her right cheek. He’d never known he had a thing for dimples.
“Not us. We had acres and acres around our house if we wanted to play pirate. The pond could be our ocean.”
Terrific. He might have to dig under the beady eyes of Arnesdale after all.
She stood and brushed her hands over her rear. Maybe she wanted some help getting the dust off her jeans back there.
She tapped the side of the chicken container. “This is one of those cheap ones, so don’t bother returning it. I should stop bothering you now.”
Ames was obviously about to say good-bye, and he didn’t want her to go. And he really didn’t want to think about his ulterior motives for wanting her to stay. “You sure you don’t want to take a walk? Show me some of the highlights of the house and land?”
“You didn’t see the highlights before you bought it?”
Bought it? Would anyone really want to buy this wreck? Other than Ames Jensen, that is.
“I haven’t had much time to explore the place. You’ve had years,” he said.
“I guess I could show you the best spot in the woods.”
“Oh? Is that where you and your brother and your friends drank beer and smoked dope?”
She rolled her eyes. “Elliot smoked and drank. I studied. I wasn’t a complete Goody Two-shoes, but I wasn’t in his league. Plus he’s three years older than me, so we wouldn’t hang out anyway. Come on, let me show you one of the nicest features about this place.”
After the moldering stuffiness of the house, the outside smelled great. Nick didn’t think much of the country, but it was too bad the air couldn’t be bottled and sold in New York. An upscale store that sold not scents but the actual breath of a breeze—a place like that would flourish on hot summer days when much of the city stank like a postparty urinal along