He watched Joe turn up the intimidation level of his stare, and though Roger tried to smile casually at him, he couldn’t quite manage it. No wonder Joe Bellacera had a reputation for getting exactly what he wanted—whether it was convincing an informant to talk or a getting a woman he’d just met to eat out of his hand. It was his eyes. They could be pitch-black and threatening one minute and cheerful and sweet the next.
And though he’d known Joe since he was a kid straight out of Special Forces, the guy’s intensity still managed to make Roger more than a little nervous.
Roger breathed a sigh of relief when Joe began to let his big body relax into the chair, his glare mellowing to a frown.
“So let’s hear it, boss.” Joe ran a hand through what was left of the heavy black hair that had been past his shoulders only days ago. “Who am I? What’s my story?”
Roger reached for the dossier, flipped open the cover embossed with the Drug Enforcement Administration shield, and read aloud.
“ ‘You’re Joseph William Mills.’ “
Joe let out a sharp laugh. “Jesus tap-dancing Christ! Mills? Could you possibly have been a little less Wonder Bread?” He shook his head. “Go on.”
Roger stifled a chuckle, agreeing that the name hardly fit Joe’s infamous Latin-lover looks. “We’re going Middle America here, Joe.”
“I’m all over it.”
Roger laughed out loud at that. “You’re a mystery writer trying to get published. You live off your investments. You work at home. Keep to yourself. Divorced. No kids. Moved from the city to start over. A private kind of person.”
Joe mumbled something probably crude and probably in Spanish, Italian, or Greek or some combination thereof. Roger raised an eyebrow.
“Go on,” Joe said, crossing one long leg over a knee. “This is good. I can’t wait to hear the rest.”
Roger scanned the file. “Hayden Heights subdivision. Soccer moms and corporate dads. We’ve done background checks on everyone and the place is squeaky clean. The house is a nice, modern split-level with four bedrooms, two and a half baths, a patio, and a pool. And it’s all compliments of the U.S. Marshals Service.” Roger winked.
“They owed me one.”
“Plush. Give the marshal my regards. But why the hell do I need four bedrooms?”
“Well, for one thing, you’ll be meeting with the supervisory agent in Cincinnati, a guy named Rich Baum. He could really use your expertise while you’re in town.”
“Yeah, but we’ll be meeting in his office, not my bedroom. What am I supposed to do with a place that big?”
“You can run around the house and dance to show tunes for all I care—just keep a low profile until the trial.”
“That could be a while.”
“We’re well aware of that. We’re just trying to make this as pleasant as possible for you.”
“I still say shoot me.”
“Not an option. The whole case against Guzman is built on your testimony about the year you and Steve spent inside.”
“I know.”
“Guzman has a million-dollar reward out for your head, Bellacera.”
“I know.”
“So if you don’t disappear, you’re a dead man. And years of hard work and countless taxpayer dollars are down the crapper. Not to mention you’ll never get justice for Steve and his family. So you go. It’s your job to go.”
Joe said nothing for a long moment, and Roger watched the shadow of grief and rage pass through the agent’s face. He hoped the downtime would allow Joe to come to terms with the murder of his partner, Steve Simmons, and his wife and son—as much as that was possible. Joe looked him straight in the eye and whispered, “When?”
“Three days. Stay in the safe house until then. Movers will come for your stuff day after tomorrow. Here.” Roger handed him a manila envelope. “The usual—driver’s license, Social Security card, retail credit report, passport, birth certificate, baptismal certificate, Visa, medical records, your airline ticket, and there’s even a Clermont County Library card.”
Joe peeked inside the flap, then grimaced. “Guess I’ll have plenty of time to read.”
“Good luck to you, Mr. Mills.” Roger stood up to shake his hand, and he felt a big smile spread across his face. “And for God’s sake, Joe—do us all a favor and stay away from the soccer moms.”
“We have two minutes and sixteen seconds! Move it!”
Charlotte tossed her laptop case into the front passenger seat and revved up the minivan’s engine, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel with one hand while clutching the Palm Pilot stylus in the other. She poked at the tiny keyboard.
Eight a.m.: Do the Gossards’ regular grocery shopping and deliver their meal plan for the week.
Nine-thirty: Pick up the Raffertys’ dry cleaning, drop off their little dust mop of a dog at the groomer’s, then meet their pool restoration man at ten-fifteen. She could work on their weekly meal plan while she waited for him to finish his estimate.
She checked her watch and leaned out the car door. “Matthew! Hank! Let’s get a move on!”
Back to her Palm Pilot.
Noon: A lunch meeting with the Jacobsens, potential new clients. The husband was an executive at Procter & Gamble and the wife was a tax attorney. They had two kids and zero time to manage their home life—ooh, how she loved people like that! They were the ideal clients for Multi-Tasker, Inc.
The van bounced as the children threw themselves into the backseats. Without looking up, Charlotte reeled off the usual checklist.
“Seat belts?”
“Yep!”
She heard the click of metal. “Lunches?”
“Yep!”
“Backpacks?” “Yep!”
“Matt, do you have your volcano?”
“Uh-oh.”
Charlotte’s head snapped up and she looked at her watch. “You’ve got forty-five seconds, big guy. Do you need me to help you carry it?”
“No. I got it.”
Watching Matt run into the house, she recalled how they’d stayed up until eleven finishing the earth sciences project and pictured all that hard work crashing to the macadam. Charlotte set aside her Palm Pilot and ran after her son.
Matt bit his lip in concentration as he took tiny steps out of the garage. She reached him just before the creation slipped from its cardboard base.
Matt smiled up at her. “Thanks, Mama.”
Charlotte kissed his cropped head, stiff with way too much hair gel, and smiled. “You’re welcome, honey.”
They were now precisely two minutes behind schedule.
“After school we’ve got playtime from three to four and homework from four fifteen to five.” Charlotte turned the van into the William Howard Taft Elementary drop-off lane. “Then you’ve both got Little League from six to eight. We’re having falafel for dinner.”
“Awful falafel,” Matt mumbled from the backseat.
“I’d rather have monkey chowder,” Hank said.
Charlotte reveled in the sound of her kids giggling. It didn’t happen enough these days. “And, Hank, your coach called to say they’ve decided to move you up to the majors this year.”
“All right,” the girl breathed.
“The majors?” Matt’s voice was high and squeaky. “But that’s not fair! She’s only eight! I didn’t get in the majors until this year! That’s totally messed up!”
“Dork butt,” Hank whispered.
“Freak,” Matt hissed back.
“That’s enough.” Charlotte was now third in line behind two other minivans. “Get your stuff together. Matt, do you need a hand?”
“Duh-uh! I’m not a total Dorkus maximus, Mother. I can carry one stupid little volcano!”
Seconds later, Charlotte slapped herself on the forehead. She’d just witnessed the painstakingly sculpted mountain of flour paste slide off the cardboard into a shapeless blob on the sidewalk. She bolted out of the van and knelt next to Matt, stroking his back as the car ho
rns blared.
“I’m so sorry, Mama.” Matt’s entire face was clenched tight and his already ruddy cheeks were on fire with embarrassment.
“It’s okay, Matt. Let’s just scoop this up and—”
“I’ve got it, babe.”
Jimmy Bettmyer nearly flattened Matt in his effort to get his hands on the ruined project. Then he stood, towering over them in his expensive real estate agent suit, grinning down in triumph. “Tough break, little buddy.” Jimmy then scanned the crowd of teachers, parents, and kids that had assembled at the accident scene, making sure everyone noticed his gallantry.
“Everything’s under control,” he said to the crowd, offering Charlotte his free hand.
She rolled her eyes and helped Matt to his feet. “Go on in, honey. I’ll call your teacher to explain.”
Matt slinked off, his head hanging, his gaze riveted to his shoes. Charlotte felt the fury rise when some of the kids snickered as he walked past. She wanted to take them all by the shoulders and scream, “Hasn’t he been through enough?”
Instead she felt Jimmy Bettmyer’s breath on her neck and turned to find him dangerously close. The instant his hip made contact with her side she leaped back and headed for the van. He followed her.
“Maybe I could come over and help Matt rebuild this tonight. He could probably use a little male engineering know-how.”
Charlotte reached for the door handle as she scanned the crowd for Hank’s bright red curls and shocking pink backpack. She was relieved to see her daughter chatting happily with a group of girls as she moved through the school’s double doors.
Jimmy leaned into the van window. “Besides, we all know Matt’s not the only member of the Tasker family who could use a little male companionship.”
Charlotte turned to face him. Jimmy Bettmyer had been trying to get in her pants from the first day they’d moved to Hayden Heights, when his wife, LoriSue, had been six months pregnant with Justin. All these years later, he was still trying to get in her pants. In fact, Charlotte was sure the only reason Jimmy escorted Justin through the school doors every morning was to advertise his availability to the drop-off moms. The man was a predator.
And, apparently, a real slow learner.
“Jimmy, why don’t you bless your own family with your male know-how and leave me the hell alone?”
When the driver behind her laid on the horn, Charlotte put her van in gear and pulled away from the curb. Jimmy jogged alongside, still holding the ruined school project.
“LoriSue and I are separated and you know it,” he panted. “I’m only living with her because I refuse to give her possession of the house. It’s the principle of the thing.”
Charlotte said nothing but pushed the automatic window button and smiled as the pane of glass went up between them. Unfortunately, Jimmy stuck his arm in the window and had this to add: “You may be a vegetarian, but I bet a hot little number like you can’t go too long without a nice piece of meat!”
That was it. She hit the brakes and got out of her van.
She raised her chin and looked up at him—a thirty-something former jock with thinning blond hair and a very unattractive smirk. “I’m not interested in you, Jimmy.”
Charlotte was quite pleased that her voice sounded calm yet assertive—clearly the voice of a woman who had her act together. “In fact, I just plain don’t like you. You basically ignore your kid. You cheat on your wife. You have no manners. And as far as your ‘piece of meat’ goes…”
Charlotte let her gaze drop below Jimmy’s belt, then shook her head. “Meat makes me nauseous. Now back off or I’m calling LoriSue to tell her all about this little encounter.”
Jimmy’s eyes narrowed and he gave her a nasty smile. “You know, Charlotte, someday you’re going to beg for it.”
She got back in the van. As she drove away, she heard him shout after her, “What the hell am I supposed to do with this volcano?”
The carpooler behind Charlotte told him precisely what he could do with it, and Charlotte laughed all the way to the Kroger parking lot.
That night, she checked on Matt first. Her son lay on his side curled up in a ball, the long, thin index finger of his left hand hanging limply from his mouth. She reached out and gently pulled it away from his lips, aware that it was probably too late to avoid braces, but at least she could go through the motions.
She watched Matt root around in sleep for the familiar comfort of his finger—the way he’d done all his life.
Charlotte remembered the ultrasound. She’d been just over five months pregnant when the indistinct gray and white image showed the tiny male human living inside her. He had a tiny head and tiny feet and a tiny penis—and his left index finger stuck in his mouth. She and Kurt had been fascinated by this first glimpse of the life they’d made—the first peek at their family.
She stroked the boy’s short brown hair, looked at the outline of his face in the night-light, and let the tears flow. Charlotte only cried when the kids were asleep. And usually only when the effort it took to stay cheerful in their presence had exhausted her to the core. Today had been one of those days.
Like yesterday and the day before that.
She patted Hoover’s head on her way out and smiled at the big dog. He used to sleep in the hallway at the top of the steps, but on the night Kurt died he began sleeping in Matt’s room. It was like he knew the boy needed a protector.
She checked on Hank next. Her daughter lay openmouthed on her back in the narrow twin bed, her arms and legs flung out like she’d stopped in the middle of making a snow angel. The lightweight blanket lay in a heap on the floor.
Charlotte wiped tears from her face and smiled down at Hank. The child had obviously inherited the flaming red hair from Charlotte’s side of the family, but everything else about Hank was her daddy. She was round and solid, with a friendly, open face, wide eyes, and a charming smile. People gravitated toward her, just like they’d done with Kurt. She was even named after his mother.
It always amazed Charlotte how children of the same parents could be so inherently different from each other.
Charlotte worried about Matt. She knew Hank would be all right. And she prayed every day that the kids didn’t sense the discrepancy.
Charlotte went to her bedroom, closed and locked the door, and arranged the pillows just the way she liked—stacked five high behind her back. Kurt used to tease her, saying that in a bed with six pillows you’d think a man could have at least two, but no…
Some nights she simply missed Kurt. She missed his comforting warmth, familiar smell, and the steady in-and-out of his breath in sleep. Tonight, she missed sex. She missed it with such a sharp emptiness that it made her legs and arms ache. So she put the sixth pillow on her lap, unlocked her nightstand, and got out the cloth-covered poetry journal. She opened it to the first blank page and began to write.
She needed this tonight. She needed to release the pressure building inside her, feel the hot, sharp rush and resulting peace, just to survive until morning.
She’d felt so alone today, especially when she sat at the Raffertys’ kitchen table, preparing their low-fat, high-fiber, plant-based, protein-centered meal plan. Her eyes kept returning to the well-formed backside of the pool restorer, his broad shoulders, his neck ropy with muscle and tendon. She stared at him as he measured and prodded and climbed down the pool ladder into the dry depths.
Of course he’d caught her staring out the picture window. How embarrassing! But he’d smiled—a little too brightly—and she’d quickly gone back to printing out the recipe for Chinese green bean and tempeh salad.
Charlotte uncapped the ink pen now and closed her eyes, letting the slap of guilt sting her the way it always did. She fought it off, reminding herself that this little hobby of hers hurt no one, telling herself that despite everything she’d ever been taught, it could hardly be considered a sin.
She was a sexual creature by nature. A grown woman. A widow with vulnerable kids. So what other
choice did she have?
In fact, if the truth be told, what choice had she ever had?
The hurt rolled through her chest and she closed her eyes. Yes, she’d loved Kurt. He’d been a loyal husband, a fun-loving companion, an honorable man, and a wonderful father.
But the sex. Yes, well… the sex.
About six years into their marriage, Charlotte read an article in a women’s magazine that said if your partner didn’t satisfy you, it was your own damn fault. You needed to speak up. Spell things out. Draw diagrams on a chalkboard like John Madden football plays if you had to—but it was up to you to teach the man what he needed to know.
But she’d wondered—didn’t the author realize that some men were too shy to talk about sex? That sometimes in a marriage it was the woman who was more sexual than the man? That sometimes a woman’s secrets could keep her from pushing too hard, asking for too much?
Fine. So maybe it was all her fault that sex with Kurt wasn’t cataclysmic. But that didn’t change the fact that when she’d focused on her husband, looked into his eyes, stayed present with him in the moment of passion—pfft—nothing. Zilch.
She opened her eyes. She put the pen to the paper and let the truth out: that the only thing that had ever worked was the memory of that day so long ago, and of that man.
Always her fantasy man.
Charlotte began to compose her latest erotic poem. It made her smile that Jimmy Bettmyer, of all people, had given her the idea for the title. And as the words flowed from the pen, Charlotte felt the warmth spread in her veins, because the memory of the man from her past never failed to make her unbelievably, wildly, wantonly… hot.
She smelled the honeysuckle, recalling how the little blossoms had ground into her damp skin as they rolled together in the undergrowth, the juice mixing with their mingled sweat to create the most arousing scent she’d ever known.
As always, she tasted the blood, because she’d kissed him so violently that she’d sliced open her bottom lip.
Charlotte let her tongue fiddle with the invisible scar as she wrote:
Meat
Three helpings
I couldn’t get enough