“Julia, she’s not that bad.”

“To you! The one who pays her!”

“Look, if you want, I’ll have Jeff or one of the other drivers give you a ride.”

I slumped back. “Let me figure out my day, and I’ll let you know. Maybe one of the girls can give me a ride.”

He said something to someone else, then was back on the phone with me, dropping his voice now. “You sure you don’t want to just stay? I like the idea of having you there, and I can give you a ride at lunch.”

“I’ll think about it,” I muttered.

I hung up, lay back and stared at the ceiling. Damn Martha. Then I closed my eyes and fell back asleep.

Twenty-Five

The third time I woke up, it was to a quiet house. I lay in Brad’s bed for a minute, listening for Martha, but heard nothing. I got up, checking my phone. Two missed calls, Becca and Olivia. Becca never called before noon. Something was up. My three percent battery didn’t afford me the luxury of calling her back and I crawled out of bed in search of my phone charger. I dug through my overnight bag, not altogether certain I had packed it, and sent a silent prayer upward when my fingers closed around it. I plugged it in, then warily headed downstairs.

The house was empty, the kitchen wiped down and countertops empty, void of anything that could be considered breakfast food. I opened up cabinets, finding cereal, and poured a bowl, sitting at the counter and munching away. The day stretched before me, and I had absolutely no idea of what to do with it. I had lazed away yesterday, doing nothing but feeling sorry for myself, a hobby I was already sick of. I finished off the Frosted Flakes, hefted myself to my feet and washed my bowl, drying it carefully and placing it back on the shelf. Anything I could do to stay on Martha’s good side. I returned the cereal box, then headed back upstairs.

I killed two birds with one stone and conferenced Becca in as soon as Olivia answered.

“It’s Jules. Was it coincidence, or did you both call because you love me?”

“Ha. The police called me this morning,” Becca snapped. “At ten freaking a.m.!”

“Don’t be dramatic, Becca. It wasn’t the police, it was a detective. Detective Parks, right?” Olivia said.

“I don’t know what the damn man’s name was!” she retorted.

“Wait, he actually called you guys?” I interrupted their useless spat, my head hurting from the new information. I thought that the detective’s request for alibi verification was a line on a form of his, not a lead that he would actually follow up on. Didn’t he have more important things to check on? Like the Magiano family? Since when were college interns the most likely murder suspect?

“What happened, Jules?” Olivia’s tone was serious, her words cutting into the rant that Becca was starting back into.

“Nothing,” I mumbled, grabbing my cosmetics bag and walking into the bathroom. “Well, too much to go into now. What did you tell him?”

“We told him you were at the bar with us until around eleven.” Becca’s voice was unsure. “Is that okay?”

“Of course. Did he ask you anything else?”

“That was all he asked me,” Olivia said. “He just verified, several times, how long you had stayed at the bar.”

“Same here,” Becca said, her voice subdued.

“Good.” I exhaled a sigh of relief. “Then everything should be fine.”

“Except that we don’t know what’s going on, and I was woken up at ten in the freaking morning!” Becca’s fire was back, and I wouldn’t be able to avoid it this time.

“Fine. Meet me for lunch, and I’ll explain everything. Deal?”

“Deal. But you’re paying,” Olivia said, “in exchange for us keeping you out of the gallows.”

“The what?”

“Nothing, Becca. Mellow Mushroom, noon. Work for you both?” I asked.

They agreed, Olivia offering to pick me up, and I hung up the phone with at least one part of my life figured out. I stripped, piling my clothes in the middle of the floor, and turned on the jets of Brad’s shower, brushing my teeth as the room filled with steam. Then I stepped in and shut the door, losing myself in the gloriousness of hot water.

* * *

“TELL ME THIS isn’t about Brad.” Olivia had barely allowed me to get both feet in the car before she jumped on me, her tone that annoying level of nag.

“This isn’t about Brad,” I recited dutifully, digging through her glove box until I found a pair of sunglasses and sliding them on, checking my reflection in her mirror. “But I’m not telling you anything more till we get to lunch. Becca will hack me to pieces if I tell you what’s going on before I tell her.”

She glanced over, grinning at me, the open window whipping hair over her face. “You always tell me things before you tell Becca. Why change now?”

“I don’t always do that.” I searched my memory for a leg to stand on and, finding none, moved on. “This has jaw-dropping potential, and I don’t want your reaction to look fake. We all know your acting skills leave something to be desired.” I studiously avoided her gaze, opening my purse and digging around in it, needlessly organizing and reorganizing it until I felt the coast was clear. I sat back, glancing over at her, a small smile on her lips. Our eyes met and she rolled her eyes.

“I’m going to go easy on you because it’s obvious you are having a less than perfect week.” She reached over, turning up the radio, and I sat back, happy to avoid conversation, preparing myself for the interrogation that would meet me once they were both in front of me.

I came, I ate cheese pizza, I conquered and I left. Olivia dropped me off at my house, drunk on carbs and gossip, and I stumbled across the yard and through the front door, collapsing on the couch.

The girls had wrung every juicy detail out of me, save the juiciest of all—my walk down eavesdrop lane. They had different theories for Broward’s murderer, ranging from his secret gay lover to Sheila, in the study, with a revolver. I hadn’t uttered the Magiano name, visions of severed horse heads and smashed kneecaps floating above the Parmesan cheese in front of me. My brooding was noticed, and the girls did their jobs, turning the conversation toward men and shopping, and the second half of the lunch passed by in a sea of lighthearted chatter.

I stared up at the ceiling, feeling the weight in my stomach settle. Maybe the mob wasn’t involved. Maybe the detective was right, and I had imagined the conversation. But just to be safe, I was going to keep the information close to my chest and see what Detective Parks discovered.

Speaking of which...I sat up, my full stomach protesting, and reached down, grabbing my phone and flipping through my wallet, till I found the detective’s business card. I dialed his number and waited, stretching out on the couch and staring at the ceiling.

He didn’t answer, and I left a polite but firm message, giving my cell number and asking him to call me. I stewed, my eyes roaming the spiderwebbed corners of the ceiling, going back over the words I had heard that day, the tension in Broward’s voice. There was part of the conversation I couldn’t recall, some name that had slipped in before the Magiano bomb had been dropped. I pulled deep within, trying to grab the words that had passed through that door. A takeover that had gone well, a name—something that sounded like lasagna. I thought, scrunching up my forehead, and no doubt creating three new future wrinkles in the process. Ugh. It probably didn’t sound anything like lasagna. It was probably Smith, or Jenkins, or something that had no correlation to the crusty TV dinner box that sat in our kitchen trash.

I dragged myself to my feet, the weight of my current situation too great to handle without endorphins. Carbs certainly hadn’t helped; maybe running would clear my head.

The name came to me halfway through lacing up my tennis shoes, as clear and perfect as if it had been stamped on my Nikes. Genovese. Or Ginovase. Italian names always proved difficult, but Google straightened me out, and I stood in my room, spandex-clad, and scrolled through search results, trying to find anything on the turnover that would give credence to my Magiano hypothesis.

Bingo. Eighth result down, a news article dated nine months ago, TAKEOVER, all caps, in the title.


MAFIA FAMILY TAKEOVER, BLOODY FUED ERUPTS

Associated Press, March 16, USA TODAY

In one of the major Mafia restructures of this decade, longtime mob patriarch Vincent Genovese is dead, murdered in his home. Genovese, who has been the subject of a three-year multi-bureau investigation for money laundering and extortion, was found Tuesday morning by his wife, Maria Genovese. The victim was stabbed repeatedly in the chest and died from loss of blood. One anonymous source stated Lino Genovese, a cousin of Vincent, had been questioned by police. Lino, who has been slowly moving up in Genovese power circles, has reportedly taken over several family businesses in the last few months. The anonymous source confirmed that family strife due to Lino’s increased interest in their business ventures had grown to a breaking point. Police refused to comment on Genovese’s death or Lino’s involvement, stating that it was an ongoing investigation. As of press time, no suspect has been arrested.

* * *

HOT FUCK. BROWARD had stated that the Genovese takeover had gone well, and that he hadn’t heard any complaints from the Magianos so far. I wasn’t really up on legal negotiations, but I was pretty sure that two bullets to the head might classify as a complaint. My head spun with the new information, and I straightened, shutting the laptop and thinking. I placed another call to Detective Parks, left another voice mail, then grabbed my house key and left, hitting the pavement outside at a strong pace.