Page 15
Story: Edge of Whispers
“God, yes,” Eoin said. “I’ve been working on that new tune of yours all week. I want to try it out with the lads.”
“Fine, then. Malloy’s on Saturday,” I promised.
Malloy’s was a good seisiún, from ten to two every Saturday night in an Irish pub in Queens. A motley but talented group of regulars gathered each week to mainline Irish tunes. I almost always went with my fiddle and flutes, unless I was too worn out from work, but young Eoin was religious in his zeal. And he was damn good on those Uilleann pipes. I’d never heard anyone better. The kid should go pro.
But work was work, so the tunes and the Guinness had to wait. Which reminded me that Saturday followed Friday, the day I was starting work on the D’Onofrio house.
Which meant that I would see her again tomorrow.
Through the buzzing zing of excitement, it occurred to me that I could go early. Help her get the kitchen ready for the reno. I could lift boxes. Wrap dishes in newspapers. Box up pots and pans. Eoin could come by later. Excitement swelled inside me, at the idea of being alone with her. And that wasn’t the only thing that swelled.
“You okay? You look a bit off,” Eoin said.
I swallowed the last bite of charred burger with some difficulty. “Nah, just remembering some things I have to do. Ready to haul that stove down?”
“Sure thing,” Eoin agreed.
I kept myself busy. First hooking up the stove in Eoin’s lair, then cleaning up the kitchen. I moved on to sweeping debris out of the truck bed, and from there, to cleaning out the rain gutters. When I found myself soaping the squeaky bottom of my sock drawer, I had to face the truth. I just sat there on my bed, the upside-down drawer in my lap, socks and underwear scattered across the quilt, and contemplated it.
I had a monster crush on this woman. It was destined to crash and burn. And I didn’t even have the good sense to back away. Just couldn’t do it.
I was so fucked.
Chapter Four
Beep. Beep. Beep. John Esposito rolled over on the couch and punched the button to silence the alarm. Yes, fuck you very much, it was five to midnight. He got it.
The big guy was about to check in. He’d set the alarm in advance, to be sure he was sufficiently alert. He had to be razor sharp to deal with Haupt.
Truth was, he slept very little when he was on the job. Didn’t miss it, either. Stalkings, interrogations, punishments, executions, they stoked him like petroleum fuel. He loved his work. When the gig was over and the fee was safely tucked into his offshore account, he’d sleep for two weeks straight and make up for lost time.
He peered out the window, across the street. A glance at the monitors of the vidcams he’d installed while the Contessa lay dead on her living room floor confirmed that nothing interesting was happening in the empty house. Eight vidcams. Living room, kitchen, bathrooms, basement, and the three upstairs bedrooms.
He stood up and stretched out his shoulders. Any second, Haupt would call. John knew very little about the man personally, only that he paid well and that job failure would be dangerous for John’s health. John was fine with that. He held himself to very high professional standards. That was why he charged the big bucks. The element of risk even gave the proceeding an extra zing. A plus, in his book.
The terms of this job were complicated, not a cut-and-dried hit. John preferred to get half up front, but Haupt had only given him a third, plus expenses. The rest of his fee was contingent on a successful outcome, but the promised sum was so egregiously large, he’d decided it was worth it. He hadn’t factored in what a pain in the ass Haupt was going to be, though. It was worse than dealing with his own mother.
His employer had been unimpressed when John let the Contessa slip away, but was it his fault the old bitch croaked before he could question her? He wasn’t even the one who killed her, so how was that a reflection on his professionalism? In his line of work, he’d never bothered to learn CPR. Sneaky old hag. He particularly hated that she’d put herself beyond punishment. He did not like to be thwarted by a woman. Not ever.
His only consolation was the delightful discovery of the Contessa’s three fuckable daughters. He couldn’t decide which one he liked best. Looked like he’d have to sample them all. They might try to resist him, too, during the course of this job, if he was lucky. And if they did? Ahhh yes. He was oh so ready for them.
He’d video-streamed a segment of last night’s drunken henfest in the kitchen to Haupt, but the humorless prick had been unamused. All that had interested the boss last night had been the jeweled pendants.
The three identical letters that John had taken from the Contessa’s house made cryptic references to necklaces but had offered no clear explanation. John had studied every piece of jewelry he’d taken from Lucia D’Onofrio’s bureau, to no avail. None of it seemed relevant to those fucking letters. He’d had the stuff delivered by courier to Haupt, but the old bastard hadn’t made any more sense of the jewelry than he had.
It seemed logical that this new delivery of pendants was significant. That goddamn letter was full of coy, cryptic clues designed to annoy the shit out of a straightforward professional. “Music will open the door.” What the fuck did that mean? “It’s up to you three to decipher the key together,” the stupid hag had written. “Consider beauty, faith, knowledge, and above all, love—the keys to all secrets worth knowing.”
Fucking drivel. Beauty, faith, knowledge, and love? Not his field of expertise. He’d faxed the thing to his employer, who had been unable to make anything of it, either.
But John hadn’t exhausted all possibilities yet. Given the proper incentive, the daughters could probably figure out their batty old adoptive mother’s letter. And he had all the incentive necessary in the black plastic case he kept under the bed.
The old bitch was fucking with him. From the grave. He flexed his knuckles. He wanted to wrap them around her stringy old neck and squeeze. But her daughters’ necks were velvety soft and smooth. He could punish Lucia through them.
He took his phone in hand. His internal stopwatch warned him the time had come. Five seconds to midnight—four ... three ... two ... one …
Beeep. Right on cue. John opened the call. “Yes?”
“What do you have to report?” came the soft, faintly accented voice. “Something more interesting than weeping, bingeing females?”
“Fine, then. Malloy’s on Saturday,” I promised.
Malloy’s was a good seisiún, from ten to two every Saturday night in an Irish pub in Queens. A motley but talented group of regulars gathered each week to mainline Irish tunes. I almost always went with my fiddle and flutes, unless I was too worn out from work, but young Eoin was religious in his zeal. And he was damn good on those Uilleann pipes. I’d never heard anyone better. The kid should go pro.
But work was work, so the tunes and the Guinness had to wait. Which reminded me that Saturday followed Friday, the day I was starting work on the D’Onofrio house.
Which meant that I would see her again tomorrow.
Through the buzzing zing of excitement, it occurred to me that I could go early. Help her get the kitchen ready for the reno. I could lift boxes. Wrap dishes in newspapers. Box up pots and pans. Eoin could come by later. Excitement swelled inside me, at the idea of being alone with her. And that wasn’t the only thing that swelled.
“You okay? You look a bit off,” Eoin said.
I swallowed the last bite of charred burger with some difficulty. “Nah, just remembering some things I have to do. Ready to haul that stove down?”
“Sure thing,” Eoin agreed.
I kept myself busy. First hooking up the stove in Eoin’s lair, then cleaning up the kitchen. I moved on to sweeping debris out of the truck bed, and from there, to cleaning out the rain gutters. When I found myself soaping the squeaky bottom of my sock drawer, I had to face the truth. I just sat there on my bed, the upside-down drawer in my lap, socks and underwear scattered across the quilt, and contemplated it.
I had a monster crush on this woman. It was destined to crash and burn. And I didn’t even have the good sense to back away. Just couldn’t do it.
I was so fucked.
Chapter Four
Beep. Beep. Beep. John Esposito rolled over on the couch and punched the button to silence the alarm. Yes, fuck you very much, it was five to midnight. He got it.
The big guy was about to check in. He’d set the alarm in advance, to be sure he was sufficiently alert. He had to be razor sharp to deal with Haupt.
Truth was, he slept very little when he was on the job. Didn’t miss it, either. Stalkings, interrogations, punishments, executions, they stoked him like petroleum fuel. He loved his work. When the gig was over and the fee was safely tucked into his offshore account, he’d sleep for two weeks straight and make up for lost time.
He peered out the window, across the street. A glance at the monitors of the vidcams he’d installed while the Contessa lay dead on her living room floor confirmed that nothing interesting was happening in the empty house. Eight vidcams. Living room, kitchen, bathrooms, basement, and the three upstairs bedrooms.
He stood up and stretched out his shoulders. Any second, Haupt would call. John knew very little about the man personally, only that he paid well and that job failure would be dangerous for John’s health. John was fine with that. He held himself to very high professional standards. That was why he charged the big bucks. The element of risk even gave the proceeding an extra zing. A plus, in his book.
The terms of this job were complicated, not a cut-and-dried hit. John preferred to get half up front, but Haupt had only given him a third, plus expenses. The rest of his fee was contingent on a successful outcome, but the promised sum was so egregiously large, he’d decided it was worth it. He hadn’t factored in what a pain in the ass Haupt was going to be, though. It was worse than dealing with his own mother.
His employer had been unimpressed when John let the Contessa slip away, but was it his fault the old bitch croaked before he could question her? He wasn’t even the one who killed her, so how was that a reflection on his professionalism? In his line of work, he’d never bothered to learn CPR. Sneaky old hag. He particularly hated that she’d put herself beyond punishment. He did not like to be thwarted by a woman. Not ever.
His only consolation was the delightful discovery of the Contessa’s three fuckable daughters. He couldn’t decide which one he liked best. Looked like he’d have to sample them all. They might try to resist him, too, during the course of this job, if he was lucky. And if they did? Ahhh yes. He was oh so ready for them.
He’d video-streamed a segment of last night’s drunken henfest in the kitchen to Haupt, but the humorless prick had been unamused. All that had interested the boss last night had been the jeweled pendants.
The three identical letters that John had taken from the Contessa’s house made cryptic references to necklaces but had offered no clear explanation. John had studied every piece of jewelry he’d taken from Lucia D’Onofrio’s bureau, to no avail. None of it seemed relevant to those fucking letters. He’d had the stuff delivered by courier to Haupt, but the old bastard hadn’t made any more sense of the jewelry than he had.
It seemed logical that this new delivery of pendants was significant. That goddamn letter was full of coy, cryptic clues designed to annoy the shit out of a straightforward professional. “Music will open the door.” What the fuck did that mean? “It’s up to you three to decipher the key together,” the stupid hag had written. “Consider beauty, faith, knowledge, and above all, love—the keys to all secrets worth knowing.”
Fucking drivel. Beauty, faith, knowledge, and love? Not his field of expertise. He’d faxed the thing to his employer, who had been unable to make anything of it, either.
But John hadn’t exhausted all possibilities yet. Given the proper incentive, the daughters could probably figure out their batty old adoptive mother’s letter. And he had all the incentive necessary in the black plastic case he kept under the bed.
The old bitch was fucking with him. From the grave. He flexed his knuckles. He wanted to wrap them around her stringy old neck and squeeze. But her daughters’ necks were velvety soft and smooth. He could punish Lucia through them.
He took his phone in hand. His internal stopwatch warned him the time had come. Five seconds to midnight—four ... three ... two ... one …
Beeep. Right on cue. John opened the call. “Yes?”
“What do you have to report?” came the soft, faintly accented voice. “Something more interesting than weeping, bingeing females?”
Table of Contents
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