Chapter 3
1963 Words
“Whatever you want, babe.”
The three of us stepped out onto the cobblestone patio. The heel of Portia’s shoe caught in a hole in the damaged stone, and Quinn and I both caught her in time to keep her from hitting the ground.
“Looks like this will have to go also,” I snarled. Piece of s**t patio.
“I’d suggest talking with a paver about it,” Portia said calmly, making another note. “This is lovely old stone.”
A few hundred yards to the left was a huge building.
“That’s the garage,” Portia told us. “At one time it had been the carriage house.”
From where we stood, it looked like a stiff breeze would blow it down, and I could understand why Novotny had said it was in bad shape.
“Those cellar doors don’t look too good either.” What I could see of the outside doors wasn’t promising.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Portia squeezed Quinn’s arm. “I’m afraid this house might prove to be a white elephant.”
“Mark and I can handle it, Mother.”
“You bet your… uh…Yeah, we can handle it.”
Portia sent a mischievous smile my way, and this time she squeezed my arm. Like Quinn, she made a point of avoiding my right arm, which was recovering from the bullet wound.
“What’s everyone doing out here?” Novotny stepped through the french doors. Abruptly, he shied back. “Oh God. This yard is going to take a… a lot of work.”
“Yeah. We were just talking about it. It’s gonna cost a… lot of money as well to get it into shape.”
“It’s too bad you can’t sell off some of this acreage,” Novotny said.
“Quinn doesn’t have to do that,” I told Novotny, although I knew developers would snap up the land in this part of Arlington in a heartbeat and for whatever Quinn chose to ask for it. “I can take care of it.” I had that F. Y. account I’d planned to use if the day came when I had to—resign—fast from the WBIS. That didn’t seem too likely these days. The Boss had found out about Quinn when he’d come to Paris to make sure I wasn’t at death’s door, and he seemed okay with the fact that my partner was not only a man but a spook as well.
That didn’t surprise me once I’d realized The Boss had a soft spot for Portia Mann.
“Quinn can’t do that.” Novotny seemed upset. “His grandfather made his will airtight. Neither the house nor the land can be sold.”
I gave Novotny a look. I knew that. I’d been there when Quinn read the conditions of the will. And if anyone even tried to break the will, the house, the land—everything—all went to the Animal Welfare League of Arlington.
“How did you find the butler’s pantry, dear one?” Portia asked.
“It can’t hold a candle to the one out in Shadow Brook.” Novotny shrugged. “It’s a lot smaller. But it does have nice built-ins.”
“Let’s leave the outside for another time and resume looking at the house.” Portia took Novotny’s arm and they went back through the french doors.
Quinn and I followed them, and he was just locking the doors behind us when my cell phone began to play “I’m Going to Go Back There Someday.”
Novotny turned around to give me a condescending grin. “Really? A Muppets’ song?”
I ignored him. If he recognized the music, he had no reason to mock me for using it.
I flipped open my phone. “Hi, Theo.”
“Hey, Vince. I’m surprised to hear from you on a Saturday morning. What’s up?”
“A friend of mine needs some work done on his house.”
“Our house, Mark,” Quinn murmured.
Novotny scowled, but Portia seemed pleased. She really was a classy lady.
And me? I got the feeling in my chest that crept up on me when Quinn said things like that. Yeah, who’d have expected Mark Vincent to get a case of the warm fuzzies? Even though we’d said those three little words to each other, it was still too recent not to leave me feeling baffled on occasion.
“Our house,” I corrected. “Would you be able to come take a look at it?”
“You want me to decorate it?” Theo sounded overjoyed.
“Do you have the time?” It was still tax season, and now that he’d stopped being a rent boy, he was making use of his degree in accounting.
“I can take a few hours off. I’ve been getting a lot done with Wills out of town.”
“I appreciate it. Send me the bill.”
“Vince, that’s not necessary. I’m not doing your taxes.”
“No, but I’m taking your time. When can you get here?”
“Give me about twenty minutes. Is it okay if I bring Miss Su with me? I don’t want to leave her home alone.”
Tiramisu was the American Bobtail that Matheson had given Theo for Christmas. She was a friendly cat, almost doglike in her behavior, and her presence would help. Quinn’s cousin had mentioned squirrels up in the attics. I didn’t know if Miss Su was a hunter, but her scent might encourage any critters to make a fast departure.
“Sure, why not?”
“Cool beans. I’ll see you in a little while.”
“Okay, thanks.” Before I could hang up, I heard him call, “Come to Poppa, Suzie Q! We’re going to see Uncle Vince!” I groaned, shook my head, and put my phone away. How did I get to be a cat’s uncle? “Theo will be here in a little while. He’s bringing his cat.” I turned to Portia. “I think you’ll like her.”
“I’m sure I will, if she’s as sweet as the one you gave me.”
The Maine Coon kitten I’d given Portia was an early Mother’s Day present. I’d been calling the kitten Pita, because the twerp who’d abandoned her had referred to her as a pain in the ass, and Portia would have been okay with that name, but I came home from work one day to find the kitten had a new name.
Miss Priss. I’d threatened to take her back if Portia had changed her name, but Portia assured me the kitten named herself.
I wouldn’t know about that. My old lady could barely take care of me, and she’d flat out refused to have even a turtle or a goldfish in the house. Now, the only pet I owned was the statue of a dog I called Sam. He was actually Sam the Second. Quinn had given him to me to replace Sam One after it had been destroyed when that i***t Sperling tried to get in my place at Forest Heights and the door blew up.
There was a reason why I had numerous locks on my door. If the correct sequence wasn’t keyed, explosions tended to happen.
Portia interrupted my thoughts. “Shall we see what condition the rest of the house is in?”
Chapter 3
AS IT TURNED out, aside from the butler’s pantry, the public rooms on the first floor were enormous: a formal dining room that could easily seat twenty; the two parlors, one formal, the other more casual; a study that contained a desk and another ratty sofa, and whose walls were lined with mostly empty bookshelves; a kitchen which Heather had attempted to update to gourmet status. The appliances were stainless steel, the countertop was granite, and the backsplash was glass subway tile. In the center of the room was a large island that featured a gas cooktop, and suspended from the ceiling above it was a curved range hood that matched the rest of the stainless steel in the kitchen.
“It’s too bad she didn’t get much use out of this,” Quinn said as he pulled open the drawers in the island. The top one was empty, although a shelf beneath it contained numerous cookbooks. All the other drawers held pots and pans, and Novotny made a satisfied sound.
“Calphalon. Very nice.” He would know, since he did the cooking for Portia. “And she kept them in good condition.”
I’d planned to buy him some to celebrate their relationship, but between Spike, the friend of a friend, getting kidnapped, Femme needing some help with the s**t that was going down at the Division, and then me getting shot, I hadn’t had the time. And of course when I’d had the opportunity to see what he had in his kitchen, I’d realized it would be like bringing coals to Newcastle. I’d have to come up with something else, and I’d have to do it soon.
We were about to head up to the second floor— “Do you think we should have an elevator put in?” Quinn asked, staring pointedly at my bum leg—when a sound reminiscent of fingernails on a blackboard made me shy back and reach for the Glock I carried under my left arm.
“What the f**k—”
“That’s probably the doorbell.” Novotny didn’t give me a hard time about my reaction to the sound, probably because he’d had the same one. “I’ll get it.” He shrugged his shoulders under his suit jacket and strode off to the front of the house.
I ran my right hand through my hair, then flinched when the almost-healed wound in the meaty part of my arm protested. “Portia?”
“Of course, Mark.” She knew what I was driving at and added replacing the doorbell to the list in her notebook.
In a matter of minutes Novotny returned. Theo followed him, carrying the gray tabby with the very blue eyes.
“I remember you,” he was saying. “You brought a DVD player for Vince last year.” He smiled at Portia. “And you were in the car.”
He suddenly went still and turned slightly panicked eyes toward me.
“Should I have forgotten that?” Having been a rent boy until a little more than a year ago, an important aspect of Theo’s trade had been to keep quiet about who he saw and what they wanted.
“It’s okay.” I patted his shoulder and scratched Miss Su under her chin, and Theo blew out a relieved breath. “This is Theo Bascopolis. You know Quinn, Theo.” Quinn had accompanied me to Theo’s place to pick up Miss Priss, and at that time he’d met Theo. He already knew Theo’s partner, my agent, William Matheson. There was a time when I’d lived in the attic apartment, and Quinn and Matheson would pass on the stairs when Quinn was coming to visit me. “And this is Quinn’s mother, Mrs. Mann, and Novotny. He’s her chauffeur.”
“Actually, he’s my very dear friend.” She smiled at Novotny.
Novotny looked as if she’d handed him the moon.
Well, if Quinn smiled at me like that, I’d probably look the same way.
Portia turned to Theo and said, “I must say I was impressed by the way you decorated Mark’s condo.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I was happy he let me do it.”
“Theo’s own apartment is very well done, also,” Quinn said.
“Thank you.” Theo blushed. He’d been used to compliments for his s****l expertise, but it still surprised him when others saw him as an actual person. “Um… this is Miss Su, Tiramisu. Say hi, puss.”
The cat meowed, and Portia began to make a fuss over her.
Just then my cell phone rang, this time playing “Another One Bites the Dust.”
What could Matheson want?
I flipped open the phone. “Yeah?”
“Sorry to bother you, sir. I finally got some of that information you wanted.”
I glanced from Quinn to Portia. “This is about the hit-and-run.”
Matheson was not only an excellent agent, he’d also turned out to be a genius when it came to computers. I’d asked him to hack into the Savannah PD’s system to see what he could discover about the accident that resulted in the eventual death of Quinn’s cousin.
Apparently she’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. A man leaving Home Depot had been about to cross the parking lot when he’d been shot. The men involved had fled the scene; however, their car had driven right into Heather Snow, sending her spiraling in the air. Her landing had caused severe head trauma.
- Writer
