Sean aka Diesel (Cocker Brothers Book 14) Page 8

  “Plus he’s shadowing us anyway,” she adds, defensive.

  He checks the road, then throws back, “Even if he was an elder he’d be back there, Ceels, and you know it!”

  I see her left knuckles tighten to white. Amused I call up, “You are smaller than I am.” Her head swings back and fire shoots from her look. “Oh shit,” I mutter, grinning.

  Her snarl shifts to laughter. “You’re a jerk, Sean. Nice one.”

  “I thought so!”

  Soon we pull off the road and park on a quiet Louisiana street marked mostly by the fact that it’s mostly apartments, and not high end ones. Walking on solid ground feels like floating after controlling a beast like that hog. Didn’t realize how tense I was, making sure I looked good and handled it right, until I have only my limbs to control. Atlas and Celia stare up at the second story of a building with 1970’s brown and orange paint.

  “You think it’s that apartment?”

  “Hope so,” she says. “Curtain’s closed though. And we can see that guy moving around in the next place so that’s not her.”

  “Tip said she’s a caregiver during the days. Probably working, right?”

  “Let’s find out.”

  I follow them to the buzzers, watch them read through dozens of names, find one they’re looking for, and push the tiny silver button. After a few tries, they nod to each other and push another button. A man answers.

  Atlas moves for Celia to say, “Hi, this is Jennifer from 310. I locked myself out, could you buzz me in? Sorry to bother you!”

  A beep squawks, front door unlatches, and we head in.

  My pulse is quickened as we head to the stairs, walk up to 207 and wait while Atlas pulls out his keys, pretending to be using them while also jimmying the door open. Takes him a long time, so I’m getting nervous. Even Celia glances around. For the sake of hiding his break-in she laughs, “You shouldn’t have had that fourth shot, John!”

  He laughs, “You bet me to drink, I drink!” Just then it opens and he says, “See, home sweet home. Stop worrying so much,” loud and amiable so nobody gets suspicious.

  We step in, and they move quickly. Opening up drawers and cupboards, looking for I don’t know what. Jett gave them the details without me there—soon as Celia and I returned to the house he pulled them aside. He didn’t want to encourage me taking actions when we got here. You can’t move if you don’t know which direction you’re going in.

  Celia says. “This might have been furnished when it was rented.”

  Atlas walks out of the kitchen, scans the layout. “That makes sense. It’s got enough space to add what you bring with you, and enough to get by if you’ve got nothing. Plus it’s all old. No character. Not a woman’s home.”

  “If the tip is right, this might be a temporary.”

  I ask, “What’s a tip?”

  “We get calls about problems. Then we check them out to see if they’re real.”

  Celia lifts up an old clock radio. “This had to come with the place.” Turning to me, she adds to his explanation. “Since we save the innocent we have to make sure the bad deed we got the call about is really happening, and intentional. Otherwise we could accidentally hurt an innocent. Some people have personal vendettas and call in things just to ruin a good person’s life. It’s not common, but we’re careful.” To Atlas she asks, “So if it’s a Black Widow, then it’s like a serial killer. They keep trinkets.”

  He nods, “Souvenirs.”

  The search is on again. I hang back, watching. When they come up empty, frustrated at the dead end, I ask, “Okay, what the hell is a Black Widow?”

  Rubbing his palm with his thumb Atlas explains, “It’s a woman who pretends to love someone then kills them, takes their money, and runs, often switching identities.”

  “Wow.”

  “The name is usually used for a woman,” Celia says, glancing around with impatience. “When it’s a guy he usually has a separate life. A wife and family at home who don’t know anything about his evil side.”

  “Fuck,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair. “You’re looking for trinkets? Something they keep from the victims?”

  “Yes,” they both answer.

  “I saw this movie once where someone hid things in the air vents. It was the bathroom’s heater, an old one like this place.”

  Celia produces a Swiss Army knife from her pocket. She starts with the kitchen vent, unscrews it and finds it empty. Atlas heads for the bathroom, same thing. She hits the one in the bedroom. Empty.

  “We have to go soon,” she exhales, irritated. “Maybe there’s nothing here. We can go where she works, check her out and see if she gives herself away. Or hell, maybe she’s innocent!”

  Atlas eyes the wall-unit air conditioner. He heads over. “It’s unplugged.” Inserting it in the socket, he presses the power button and the thing turns on, loud as hell, but working. He switches it off. Kneeling in front, he jimmies the front cover off. “They snap off to replace the filter. This ones clean. Celia, your hands are smaller. Dig under here.”

  She kneels with him, reaches in, fingers wiggling as she grunts. “Hey!” She pulls out an envelope. Their eyes light up with victory. As they stand, she opens it and I walk over to have a look at a stack of drivers licenses. “Jackpot,” she whispers, reading. “These people are all well into their nineties and hundreds by now. Or they would have been. Look at the years of birth.”

  “Missing persons?” I ask.

  “Nah,” Atlas mutters. “Let’s go.” He says over his shoulder as we follow him out, me in the rear since I paid attention, “If she kills them when they’re that old then it looks natural. They’re not missing. Just gone before they were meant to be.”

  Celia shudders. “At least they get funerals. Unlike those who are never found.”

  CHAPTER 16

  C ELIA

  A t the motorcycles I instruct Sean, “Now that we know what we’re dealing with is real, there will be no detective work at the next location.” He holds my look, a slight smile sparking his sapphires. My expression changes slightly, shoulders relaxing at the sense that he thinks I’m pretty awesome right now. Trying to remain ‘professional’ isn’t easy when Sean’s so excited to be here. He’s like a kid with his first roller coaster. Only he looks like it ran over him already.

  As Atlas reads the map he mutters, “Strap your helmets to your bikes. Too short a distance. Wastes time to take them off when we get there.”

  Sean tears his gaze from me, rubbing his stubble as he asks, “Where are we going?”

  But I’m the one who answers so that it doesn’t seem like Atlas runs this show. “We got a call from the son of a man who’s dying in his own home, maybe before his time.” And I have to bend over to pick a penny off the sidewalk to explain. Maybe stay bent over a second longer just to keep Sean’s attention by extra sneaky means. “A nurse applied to be his caregiver. Seemed like a really nice woman at first. She keeps him company during the day.” Perhaps I like how it feels when those sapphires are on me. It’s a pretty good bet to say my mind isn’t on the job right now as I glance to his lips and remember how they felt pressed unexpectedly to mine. “Um…the son confronted her, asked why his father’s health had declined so quickly. You know what she did?” I pause as Sean bites his lip, eyeing my mouth and shaking his head like he’s not listening either. Like if we were alone, there wouldn’t be this two feet of distance between us. “She told the old man that his son is jealous of what they have, that he wants her gone so he can hire a male nurse who won’t spend as much time with the old man. Poor lonely guy cut off relations with the son. Thinks she loves him.”

  Atlas tucks his phone away and mutters, “Sick right? Okay I just checked the notes. Her name is Corinne. At least that’s the name she’s using. Probably not her real one. She should be there now, and probably for the next four hours. But let’s not stretch this out. Poor old guy is all alone and here he has this young sociopathic nurse whispering love songs i
n his ear, convincing him he doesn’t need anyone but her.”

  On a frown, Sean asks him, “How come the son didn’t call his father’s doctor, ask why the decline?”

  “He did. The doctor said he’s just getting old and that’s what happens.”

  “What about the police? Tell them his suspicions?”

  “He was about to.”

  Mounting my bike with more sensuality than I’ve ever used before I interrupt, “Hiring a cop would have put more distance between him and his dad. Because what if he was wrong? There would have been a big stink. Hard to get past that.”

  Atlas mounts his bike, adjusts himself. “And you really don’t want to say goodbye like that, right?”

  My gaze slides to Sean as he climbs Scratch’s Harley like it was waiting for him to claim it. His snug blue jeans look damn good. The sneakers on steel footrests are just plain wrong. “You’ve gotta get rid of those.”

  Revving his engine he smirks, “Sofia Sol said the same thing.”

  Giving my engine some gas, too, I cock an eyebrow. “And you didn’t listen? Here I thought you were smart!”

  We take off in protocoled order with me stifling a smile, loving the vibration of my powerful Harley a little more than usual. With the wind blowing through our hair and massaging our skin, we ride together through the suburban town until we arrive in its best neighborhood. A Black Widow wouldn’t target poverty. The street this old man retired on is quiet, charming, deceptively peaceful. In a place like this the neighbors would never guess what’s going on in the house right next to them. People give busy-bodies a bad rap, but the Neighborhood Watch program is a good thing in my opinion. It takes a village to keep a family safe.

  But there’s no way anyone would detect something suspicious in this situation. See a nurse coming out of old man Russo’s house and you’d think everything was peachy. If anything, as she waved to you and got into her car, you’d smile that it was nice Russo was being taken care of. It’s also perfectly understandable that the old guy would tell his son to leave him alone with the nurse, choose her over him. Most kids don’t visit their parents when they’re old. Jett told us the son admitted to being too busy with work to spend time with his dad. If he had been, the old man wouldn’t have been susceptible to an evil bitch like her. We need an overhaul of how we treat the elderly in America. Change the younger people’s mindset, help them understand that older people are just us but with a hell of a lot more life experience. And just like us, they need a little love and company.

  Since we found those drivers licenses, this isn’t a job where we need to be discreet. Atlas rides up the short driveway with me at his side and Sean behind us. Parked in front of a closed garage, we turn our engines off at the last second. Shaking the house was our intention to give the woman a jolt, throw her off kilter.

  Atlas leads the way up a neatly landscaped path, shoulders relaxed and ready for anything. I check on Sean, behind me. He’s staring at the door, lips tight. He locks eyes with me. I raise my eyebrows to silently ask if he’s prepared. He gives me a quick nod, and we focus on Atlas ringing the doorbell. Bells ring out and fade away. Muffled heels tick-tock their way to us and a woman in her mid-thirties appears in an ensemble of slacks, pumps, and a low-cut cream blouse, but she’s got fake boobs. If I were an elderly man’s caregiver I probably wouldn’t wear my cleavage that promoted. But hey, I’m not evil.

  “Corinne Holt?” Atlas asks.

  She frowns at our patches, “Yes,” uneasy eyes darting to Sean who’s even more confusing. The Hispanic bikers are one thing, but why do they have a bruised and battered white guy with them who’s wearing normal-people clothing. She stammers, “Can I help you?”

  Atlas walks right into the house. “You can’t help anyone,” he mysteriously says. Like a shot I enter behind him, and Sean instinctively becomes a shield, swooping in and then as Atlas backs Corinne against the wall and closes the door, Sean flashes in front of me in case someone else is inside the home who isn’t over ninety. An accomplice, maybe. Impressed I take note of his actions because we didn’t teach him that.

  “Who’re you?!” Corinne demands.

  “Friend of Mr. Russo’s.” He motions to instruct Sean, “Your instincts are good. Check to see if this bitch is alone, nobody here other than the old man.” Atlas locks onto me to add, “After you know it’s clear, find her purse. I’ll keep her company.”

  “If you’re here to rob me…”

  “We don’t need your blood money, thanks.”

  Her jaw clamps shut, eyes hardening.

  Quick strides take Sean and I into the man’s tidy home. We search and find she’s alone except for our victim. In a cozy, sunlit master bedroom Mr. Russo is so pale that despite the faint pulse on his heart-rate monitor I check his wrist to make sure he’s still with us. Swearing under my breath, I snatch the Black Widow’s purse from a table set between two chairs. It hits me that Mr. Russo probably enjoyed his morning coffee here, during better days. We didn’t get the whole story, just what we needed to know, so I don’t know what happened to his wife. She might be alive, just divorced. The house is well decorated but masculine, like he could have lived here on his own for a long time.

  I start to head back, but Sean is frozen by the bed, staring at Mr. Russo with this disturbed look. “I know it’s terrible, but Atlas needs backup. Come on!”

  Sean’s brain is catching up, comprehending fully now what we Ciphers do. It’s one thing to hear that we fight the battles of the innocent, but to see it in person is altogether more upsetting. Like someone punched him in the heart, he follows me out.

  We find Atlas has Corinne cornered in the kitchen. At our footsteps he calls out, “She tried to make a break for it. I gave her a running start, for fun.”

  The woman snarls at him while I search her purse and pause near the refrigerator. “Fake ID?” I toss it for his inspection. Digging her phone out I discover it’s locked, so I toss that to him, too.

  He sends the drivers license flying back to me at the same time like we’re circus jugglers, easily catching both. “If it is fake, it’s a good one. But that’s not surprising.” He grabs her hand, forces her thumbprint onto the home-button, unlocking her cell phone as she swears like a trucker who stubbed his toe.

  “Some mouth you got there. Here ya go,” he smirks, throwing it to me. I go right for the emails, scanning and cocking my eyebrows. “Corinne likes to shop. And oh ho! They’re not shipping to the address we visited.”

  Atlas reminds me, “Check for confirmations of purchased insurance policies.”

  Hitting the search bar I type Life Insurance and shake my head. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, wow. Hang on. Let me open a few. These emails were all sent over the past two years.” Scanning the first couple I tell Atlas, “She poses as their children, puts herself as the beneficiary, pays for the policy and never tells a soul. You’re a really evil bitch, you know that? Lucky for us, you’re stupid, too. Should’ve deleted these.”

  Atlas punches the wall where he’s caged her in. Corinne flinches but that’s it. Sociopaths don’t cower. They feel nothing, and now she no longer has to fake being a normal human. She spits in his face. “Let me,” I tell him as he wipes it off. I walk over. He moves out of the way. And I knock her in the head so hard her eyes roll back.

  “Tie her up. I’ll call the son. He’ll make sure she stays put until the cops come.”

  Jett gave us young Russo’s number. I start to dial and a sound turns all of our heads. It takes a second to register that the code-blue alarm has been triggered on the heart-rate machine. The old man is going into cardiac arrest.

  Sean reacts first. At the high-pitched cry his reflexes beat even mine, and he sprints so fast it takes my breath away. By the time I burst into the bedroom Sean is already straddling the man, pumping on his heart, giving him mouth to mouth. I stare in shock—didn’t know he had this skill. We didn’t teach him this. Slowly I approach, hoping to God he can save Mr. Russo. T
he man’s son needs a chance to say goodbye. Time ticks and that straight red line is stubborn.

  Sean growls as he pumps the old man’s chest.

  “C’mon, you bastard!”

  He lunges for the lifeless mouth.

  Gifts the old man his oxygen.

  Staying steady.

  Never breaking.

  Desperate to revive a disappointed heart.

  I gasp as the line jumps, peaks, and falls. It does it again, and again. Pulse regained. Laughing with relief, hand covering my own chest, I take my first real breath.

  Sapphires blink at the man. Sean climbs off the bed to stand with me and watch the subtle rise and fall of Mr. Russo’s chest. Crinkled eyes open slightly, then fall back closed. He’s been over-medicated. That’s how she does it, we’ll come to find out. She slowly drains them of the will to live. Makes it look natural.

  But her killing days are over.

  I rest my hand on Sean’s lower back. “You okay?”

  After a long beat he blankly says, “No,” turns and leaves me here, staring after him.

  CHAPTER 17

  C ELIA

  A s we ride up the long driveway to our home Jett walks out to greet us. We park in front of the steps but remain seated so we can store these as soon as we give him the verbal report.

  “How’d it go?”

  Atlas motions to me. “Tell him, Ceels.”

  Odd for him to hand off the details, but it hits me that he wants to appear more generous than usual to earn brownie points back. Anything to dull the memory of snitching on his brother, and show he’s a team player.

  Jett’s grey eyes lock onto me as he crosses his arms to hear me explain, “She’s a Black Widow alright. We followed your hunch on that, searched the apartment for souvenirs of her victims and found a stash of drivers licenses. All old people. It made the job easier.”

  Atlas nods. “Had something to shove in her face. She tried to escape.”

  Jett crosses his arms. “Of course.”