“Brishka, go in the back and let me talk to her. Let me deal with this, all right? We knew it would come to this someday anyway, so go now into the back,” she said as she guided the older woman around the counter and through the curtain leading to the back. Dora watched until Madame J was safely on her way; then she turned to look at me, assessing how to proceed, I guessed.
Finally she moved to the big urn and filled two cups with steaming tea. Bringing them around the counter she set them on the table where I was seated, picked up the chair that Madame J had overturned, and took her seat. Her hands were shaking despite her effort to remain calm. “How do you know my husband?” she asked, getting right to the point.
“I was part of the entertainment at your daughter’s wedding.”
“Ophelia’s married?” Dora asked me, tears instantly springing to her eyes.
“Yes, about three weeks now. She was a beautiful bride,” I said, trying to make small talk and calm her down.
Dora’s eyes held a faraway stare; then she closed them and shook her head, tamping down the pain of having to distance herself from her children. “I wanted to take them with me, you know.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“The person who helped me would help me and only one of my children. He wouldn’t take on the responsibility of all of them. Besides, it was supposed to be for only a short time. They were going to put my husband away forever, and when that didn’t happen . . . well, there wasn’t anything I could do but hide.”
“Who helped you escape from him?” I asked.
“Andros’s cousin, Nico. His wife, Sophia, was my best friend,” Dora said, sighing heavily and taking a long sip from her tea. “Andros wasn’t always like this, you know. We dated in high school, and back then he was sweet and even charming. He had big dreams of owning a restaurant. He didn’t really want to be a part of the family business, but his father and older brother were gunned down shortly after we were married, and it changed him.
“His father was the don back then, and Andros was so angry at his family’s murder that he stepped up to fill his father’s shoes. He was so bent on revenge he was blind to any other option.
“He used to come home at night and tell me every horrible thing he’d ordered his men to do that day. I guess he liked to unload his conscience. Anyway, after a while, hearing about all the horrible things he’d done, I became too terrified to leave him. I simply knew too much. So I lived with my fear for nearly ten years; then he told me about an argument he’d had with Nico. . . .”
“His cousin?”
“Yes. Andros said that Nico had become a coward. He said that Nico came to him and wanted out. But ‘out’ isn’t an option when you’re related to the mob. The only way out is in a pine box, and that can come early or late in life, depending on the choices you make.
“So shortly after Nico told Andros that he wanted to sell out his share and retire, Andros came home and confessed to me that he was going to take care of Nico. I knew that if Andros could kill his own cousin, then he wouldn’t have any qualms about killing me too, so secretly I contacted Nico and told him about the plan. He immediately took extra precautions, and in return arranged for me to disappear. The problem was that I couldn’t convince him to help me and all of my children. He was too afraid of Andros, I guess, so he would agree only to help me and one other. I chose Demetrius because he seemed the most impressionable at the time, and I didn’t want him to grow up like his father.
“So the day I disappeared I took Demetrius with me to run some errands, and I was so nervous about being seen that I didn’t keep a close eye on him.” Dora had lifted a paper napkin from the dispenser at the side of the table and was wringing it in both hands as she recalled the painful memory. “When Nico showed up I couldn’t find Demetrius. He’d wandered off, and we had such a small window of opportunity. I had no choice but to leave him behind, and it just about killed me. . . .” Dora stopped and took a sip of tea, tears slipping down her cheeks as the emotion of that memory stirred up all kinds of demons. “Nico talked me into leaving my son behind. He said he would send someone to find Demetrius right away, and he reasoned that we were in a safe neighborhood, but we couldn’t wait a moment longer.”
“I don’t understand why you just didn’t postpone your escape, Dora,” I said gently. The thought of leaving behind my own children was just unfathomable to me.
Dora snapped a look at me. Defensively she said, “It’s not that simple. I mean, you have to understand—I was terrified of the man I slept next to every night. He was definitely going to figure out who tipped off his cousin, and when he did my life wasn’t worth squat. Besides, Nico promised me that once we made our escape he would go to the authorities and turn state’s evidence against his cousin, and I could then be reunited with all my children. He promised me he wanted nothing more to do with the business, and I believed him.”
“So what happened?”
“Well, once Nico had gotten me safely away and was making arrangements to move his own family, his best friend was murdered and left in the trunk of Nico’s car. That really frightened him, and instead of going to the authorities as he’d promised, he simply moved his operation to Florida, as far away from Andros as possible. Sophia and I kept in touch for a little while—she wanted her husband to get out of the business too. But I guess in the end the greed just took over, and Nico couldn’t let it go.”
“So what’s your connection to Madame J?”
“Brishka was my nanny when I was a child. She retired here years ago and opened up this tearoom. When I tracked her down she offered me a safe haven. I hoped that in time Andros would just give up on trying to find me, but when word got to us that he was still actively pursuing me, Brishka offered her talents to help throw him off the track. She’s read cards and tea leaves for fifty years, and I knew how superstitious Andros was—his mother had the gift, and he’s always been in awe of it.
“So against my better judgment Brishka went to Michigan and sought Andros out, offering her services to him. The plan worked for a short while. She was good enough to provide Andros with lots of detailed information that would make him believe her, so she was also able to suggest that I was in California, then Europe, then Greece. Andros sent people all over the world trying to track me down, and in the meantime he had a stroke of genius and decided to use Brishka to help his business along.
“He demanded more and more from her until one night he called her and told her to come to his house immediately. When she got there, he ordered her to read a man sitting in his study. Brishka picked up several things about the man, including that he’d recently cheated in a card game, and without hesitation Andros shot the man point-blank right in front of her. Apparently Andros had hosted a poker game earlier in the evening and had lost heavily to the unfortunate man in his study. Brishka barely made it back here with her own life, and her fear of him is nearly paralyzing. Since then we’ve managed to keep a very low profile. That is until you showed up.”
I nodded gravely. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that.”
“So how did you find us?” Dora asked me.
“Well, Dora, the truth really is that I’m psychic. My name is Abigail Cooper, and I’m a professional clairvoyant from Royal Oak, Michigan. The way I got here was through several visions that led me directly to your door, but at the time I wasn’t really looking for you. Andros wanted me to find you, but you have my word,” I said, holding up my palm in a solemn pledge, “I would never, ever reveal to him where you are.”
Dora didn’t look convinced. “Andros can be a very persuasive man, Abigail.”
“Call me Abby, and yes, I know. Listen, my boyfriend is an FBI agent. He’s been trying these past few weeks to bring Andros down. Why don’t I get in touch with him and maybe we can come up with a plan to keep you and Brishka safe, okay?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because Andros will stop at nothing to get me back. He’s been able to
circumvent the law for thirty years. He’s a very, very dangerous man.”
“Well, he may not be so dangerous for much longer,” I said cryptically.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s dying. He’s got cancer.”
Dora’s jaw dropped, and she stared at me in shock. “He’s got cancer?”
“Yes. I picked up on it when I met with him, and he confirmed it. My intuition says he won’t make it another month. With him gone you could reconnect with your children, Dora, your family. . . .”
Dora stood up and began to pace the floor. She was clearly agitated. “It’s not that simple,” she said sharply.
“Why not?”
She stopped her pacing and looked at me, “Because I don’t know who the hell you are or if you’re telling me the truth.”
“That’s fair,” I said. “So let me prove it.”
“How?” she demanded.
I reached over and grabbed the paper napkin sitting next to my cup of tea. I smoothed it out, took a pen out of my purse and wrote Dutch’s name on the napkin. “Dora, this is my boyfriend, Agent Roland Rivers. He’s with the Troy, Michigan, division of the FBI. You can call information, get the number and leave him a message,” I explained as I scribbled my name and my cell phone number underneath. “This is my cell. Call me after you talk to Dutch—uh, Roland; he goes by the nickname Dutch. He’s a good guy and he can help you and Madame J. I promise.”
Dora looked skeptically at the napkin, and I had no idea what she was thinking. I decided to let her mull it over, and if she felt okay about it, then she would get help. If not, there was nothing more I could do. “I’m staying at the La Quinta inn if you want to meet with me again. Otherwise, thank you for the tea, and take care of yourself.”
With that I walked out of the shop and down the street, waving my arm at an available taxi.
I got back to the hotel twenty minutes later and went straight to the dining room. I was famished; the scone and blueberry muffin had only whetted my appetite for something more substantial. The hostess escorted me to a seat at a corner table near the back of the restaurant, and after sitting down I picked up the menu immediately. The dining room was filling up quickly; dinner hour had arrived.
I looked through the menu and chose the Southwestern chicken, with a basket of chips and salsa as an appetizer while I waited for my food. As I looked around the restaurant I became suddenly self-conscious; I was the only one eating alone. To give myself something to do I got up and headed out to the lobby, where I bought a USA Today newspaper and brought it back to my table. Absently I scanned the paper while I munched on the chips and salsa.
I read the entertainment section first, and sifted through a few articles on the state of the economy and world affairs. My food arrived and I set the paper aside, focusing on cutting my meat and avoiding eye contact with other patrons at the restaurant. I was halfway through the meal when something in the upper left-hand corner of the newspaper caught my attention, and I dropped my fork as I read the headline.
It read: Two undercover FBI agents gunned down execution style in their hotel room near Detroit—possible Mafia connection . . . My hands shook as I snatched up the paper and tore through the pages, looking for the article. My heart beat faster and faster, and a cold chill spread across my back. I found the article and read the first three lines quickly.
Detroit, Michigan: Two undercover FBI agents were gunned down in their sleep while on assignment at the Dorchester Hotel yesterday morning. Police and FBI agents on the scene have confirmed that one male and one female agent were shot at point-blank range in the back of the head while sleeping. The FBI will not release the identity of the victims until family members have been notified, but they are confirming that the male agent was new to the FBI, and had just completed his training at Quantico.
My hands started to shake so violently that I could no longer hold the article still enough to read it. I dropped the paper, and suddenly found it very difficult to breathe. My lungs were pumping, but no air seemed to satisfy my need for oxygen. The world began to spin and whirl, and I wasn’t able to stand, even though that was what I wanted to do. I wanted to run out of the restaurant, and go where, I didn’t know . . . someplace where the world made sense . . . someplace where Dutch was still alive.
I felt someone next to me, and I became aware that I was on the floor now, on all fours, still gasping for air. The world was growing dim, and I was seconds away from passing out when someone shoved a paper bag over my mouth and nose and lifted me off my hands to sit against the wall. My head was lowered close to my knees, and the bag still covered my mouth as I breathed in and out, inflating and deflating the bag.
Slowly I could feel my senses return; my breathing became more normal and the world had stopped spinning. I was now also aware that a small, concerned crowd had gathered, and the man next to me was speaking in slow, measured tones.
“That’s it, miss, just breathe as normally as you can. I’m a doctor, and you’re just having a little attack, but it’s almost over. That’s it . . . just breathe.”
I focused on the kind stranger still holding the bag over my mouth. My mind wanted to wander down dark paths, where the enormity of the loss I now knew about would take me down for the count. I fought that temptation with everything I had. I couldn’t lose it . . . not here . . . not publicly . . . not yet.
Finally I moved my hand up to the bag and gently pushed it aside. “Thank you,” I said gratefully.
“You’re welcome, little lady. Would you like to go to the hospital?” the kind doctor asked. He was an older gentleman with silver hair and a white beard, and even though he smiled reassuringly at me, his eyes held concern.
“No, really, I’m fine,” I said to him. “Just a little panic attack there. I just want to go to my room and lie down,” I said.
To my left a heavyset man with a bad comb-over and a name tag that read JIM MURRAY, MANAGER said, “Absolutely, ma’am. We’ll get you right up to your room. And don’t worry about your meal; it’s on us this evening, all right?”
“Thank you. That’s very kind. . . .” And even as I said this tears welled in my eyes, because no matter how hard I pushed against that dam of grief, it was still stronger than I was. Quickly I got up and with the help of the kind doctor walked on shaking legs out of the restaurant and to the elevator. There I assured the man that I was well enough to get back to my room by myself, and after hesitating a moment as he looked into my pleading eyes, the doctor nodded with a small smile and let me go.
A moment later the doors of the elevator opened and I rushed in, hugging myself as if I were going to fall apart at the seams. When I reached my hotel door I had trouble inserting the key card as tears dribbled down my cheeks and obscured my vision. I finally made it inside and shut the door. Sliding down to the floor I collapsed into great wails of agony.
Chapter Seventeen
It was hours later, and I was still on the floor. I was exhausted, but sleep was impossible. I’d been lying there, my face against the carpet for nearly an hour, trying to recall every detail of Dutch’s face, and for some reason I couldn’t remember him the way I wanted to. I could recall only the small things. Like the color of his eyes, the small dimple in his chin, the way his hair came to a gentle widow’s peak at the top of his forehead. But when I tried to back my mind away a little, to envision him whole, like a mental snapshot, his image grew fuzzy and blurred.
When I realized I didn’t even have a single physical photo of him to remind me of the way he looked, the agony was somehow sharper and more painful, like I’d betrayed him somehow by not carrying around a picture of the man I’d come to love.
I’d never told him about my true feelings for him either; and why I hadn’t done so eluded me. Was I so caught up in treading carefully and playing it cool that I’d missed the opportunity to let him know how much I’d fallen for him? Was I really that callous? That much of a goddamned coward?
I sighed into the c
arpet, these thoughts swirling in my head, and I just wanted them to stop. I lifted my chin and looked around the room, which was now completely dark. I sighed again and lifted myself to my knees, and then slowly, painfully as my cramped muscles protested, I stood up and loped over to the bed. I sat down and turned on the light, which caused me to squint and shield my eyes. After a time my eyes adjusted, and I looked blankly around the room. Just then my intuition buzzed. Angrily I turned my head to the side and mentally screamed at my crew. How dared they do this to me! How could they let someone I love die? What the hell good was being psychic if I couldn’t stop someone I loved from being killed? I raged.
I told my guides that I hated them, that I never, ever wanted to hear from them again, that I was through with readings, and tuning in, and—
Look in your purse . . .
“Screw you!” I said out loud.
Look in your purse . . .
“Back off!” I practically shouted, holding my hands over my ears as if someone were in the room trying to talk to me.
Look in your purse. . . .
The thought wouldn’t go away. It swirled around and around in my head, despite my best efforts to ignore it. Finally, irritated beyond measure, I stomped over to my purse and brought it back to the bed. I looked in it and saw nothing unusual. See? I said in my head. There’s nothing here!
Look in your purse. . . .
I gritted my teeth and growled, turning my purse upside down and dumping the contents onto the bed. I stared at the objects dully, waiting for a hint as to what I was supposed to be looking for, when my eye fell on the folded piece of paper that was the second page of the police report from Dora’s file. Curiously I picked it up and opened it, skimming quickly through the details. Something tickled my brain, and I slowed my reading down and began at the top again, taking my time to reread it slowly.
The report was mostly Demetrius’s account of the events of that day. His mother had picked him up from school and told him they needed to run some errands. Demetrius had complained that he wanted to go home and watch G.I. Joe, but his mother had insisted that he come along for the errands.