2 Brooklyn James (13 page)

“DeLuca?” he whispers, returning to himself. He looks to her then to his hands. “I’m sorry,” he professes, shame in his inflection. Grabbing her up from the floor, he holds her protectively against his chest.

“It’s okay,” she soothes. “It was my bright idea.”

“Did I hurt you?” he pulls away from her, scanning her limb to limb.

“Maybe my pride.” She smiles. He looks at her quizzically, helping her to stand. “When we practice...in full Vigilare mode...Emily, Aubrey and I. I always win,” she explains. “Something tells me I’m about to be demoted,” she references Tony’s untapped abilities.

“Well, don’t do that again,” he barks, still punishing himself for his aggression toward her.

She makes no promises, rifling through the contents of the safe. “Jackpot,” she beams, eyeing Manny Briggs’ financial statements.

“Who in the hell would give a sociopath this kind of money?” Tony questions, peering over Gina’s shoulder, the quarter-million dollar figure staring back at him.

“ETNA?” Gina shrugs. “I can tell you who’s going to take it away.”

“Sure you wanna do that? Stir the beast?” Tony paces. “We don’t even know what this guy’s made of. Or if there’s more than one. Maybe we should let Dr. Godfrey and Dr. Ryan figure out this ETNA business, and just how far they’re willing to go. Or how far they’ve already gone.”

“Let sleeping dogs lie, huh,” Gina scolds.

“Just until we get all the facts. Planning and preparation makes for the best defense,” Tony argues.

“I don’t plan on
defending,”
Gina points out, her intent to offend, act first. She grows quiet, leafing through a manilla folder.

Tony moves behind her, grabbing up a roll of tape that must have escaped from the acrobatic feat the desk underwent at the hands of Gina. He kneels to gain a better view. “He was a cute little man,” Tony comments on a picture of her son, Braydon, attached to an informative containing every detail about him from physical and biological data to hobbies and daily living activities.

Gina quickly slides the papers to the bottom of the pile, her emotions resurfacing with his image. The next packet contains a similar informative on Lon—Alonzo Geoffrey Castille, Jr.

“Castille?” Tony questions the origin of the surname, his hands busily engaged with a taping project.

“Spanish-Cajun.” Gina smiles with a memory. “His father...Alonzo Sr. plays a mean accordion. He played at our wedding reception.” The song
Jolie Blonde
rings sorrowfully in her head. The feeling of the summer white wedding gown flowing softly against her ankles, her body held tightly to Lon’s frame as he effortlessly navigated her through the steps of the tragic waltz. She breathes in deeply, her vocal chords giving way to a wanton sigh. “Papa must have been heartbroken,” she refers to Lon’s death. The tick-tock of the clock hanging on the office wall reminds her now is not the time for reminiscing. She skims through to the next file.

“Maxim Kiesel?” Tony reads the name eyeing the dark-haired, blue-eyed young man’s picture.

Gina shrugs her shoulders, unfamiliar with this one. She dives off into the data, scant on explanation. “You have any more of those famous favors left?” Gina questions, referencing Tony’s ability to obtain information that others must donate a kidney to get their hands on.

“One or two.” He grins. “That reminds me, we need to stop off at Starbucks. I have a mocha frappa slappa...something...to deliver.”

Gina chuckles, closing the folder and grabbing up the entire contents of the safe including a bundle of cash, twenty-dollar bills stacked at least four inches high. “Here. Make the barista’s morning.” She hands him the cash.

“Morning? Hell, this ought to make her year.” He stands to join her, exchanging the cash for the photo of Lon and Braydon reassembled and sutured together with tape.

Gina tucks the picture away in her pocket. “You’re a sweet man, Tony Gronkowski.” She heads for the kitchen.

“Don’t go telling everybody.” He follows after her.

She searches the kitchen cupboards for matches and any form of alcohol. “How long does that jerky tranquilizer last?” she asks, concerned with the dog in the backyard.

“Apparently not long,” Tony points out the noisy ruckus at the sliding glass door. The dog barks and growls, his claws like nails on a chalkboard against the transparent exterior. “The gate’s open, Cujo,” Tony calls to the canine. “Now that’s a mean ass dog. He’d rather be in here tearing us apart than escaping to freedom.” He shakes his head.
Whoosh!
the sound erupts from the office, followed by crackles and pops. “DeLuca?” Tony spins circles looking for her.

“Let’s go,” she returns to the kitchen, pulling him toward the access door to the garage. The smell of smoke slowly seeping from the hallway.

Tony sniffs the air. “Arson, breaking and entering, hogtying,” he begins listing her offenses. “Any other illegal activities you’d like to check off your list?”

She swings the garage door open. “Just one.”

“Aw man,” Tony marvels, eyeing the classic frame of the pewter silver 1969 Chevelle SS.

“Well, I guess it’s technically not theft when you have the title,” Gina corrects, having obtained it from the safe deposit box. Tony hurls himself in front of her, winging the driver’s side door open, staking his claim under the wheel. “Knock yourself out,” she says, hitting the metal door release and climbing in beside him.

“What? No flack? No debate over who gets to drive?” he jeers, firing up the fully muscled machine.

Gina proudly shakes her head grinning. “You’ve earned this one, my friend.”

A near orgasmic expression overcomes him as the engine kicks in, a low thunderous rumble. He sighs. “Got a cigarette, DeLuca?”

She laughs heartily, her seat belt tightening against her chest with the heavy acceleration of Tony’s foot against the gas pedal. “I think I’ve missed you, Gronkowski,” she confesses, perfectly content to be in his company once again.

“Get off me lady,” the man chokes out, losing his balance on the last step, tumbling to the street flat out on his stomach.

Aubrey goes down with him refusing to lose her quest, her ankle trapped under the man’s weight. “Gotcha!” she shouts triumphantly, her arm still locked around his neck. She pulls back against him, locking her other hand around her wrist, causing his back to bow, a move one might witness on wrestling’s
Friday Night SmackDown.
“Say Uncle,” she commands, pulling back on him, creating an even larger crescent along his back. “Say it!”

“Uncle,” the man gasps, his hand slapping the concrete, tapping out.

Marks and the officer from inside relieve her, handcuffing the man and pulling him to his feet. “You want a job, lady?” the officer inquires, shoving the man up the stairs to continue the booking process. “We’re hiring.” He chuckles.

Marks bends to Aubrey inspecting her ankle, chafed and red from its irritating contact with the sidewalk.

“Oh bugger,” she huffs, reaching for her shoe noticing a scuff mark in the red patent leather.

“Can you put weight on it?” Marks helps her to her feet.

She slips her foot inside her shoe, wincing, while taming her tousled blonde locks.

“Might be easier to walk without your foot crammed in that jacked up thing.” Marks notes the rather high heel.

She starts up the steps, gingerly favoring her right ankle. “More difficult feats have been achieved in the name of fashion,” she dismisses.

Marks gently supports her elbow walking along beside her. “I would’ve carried you, ya know?” He grins.

“Just wouldn’t feel right without the suit of armor,
Lancelot.”

“Bonnie. Where’d you
say that file was?” Chief Robert Burns questions through his phone, his full head of salt and pepper hair shifting from side to side as he searches for the document.
Knock! Knock!
the sound comes from the door casing to his office. He looks up, a pleasant smile surfacing, motioning Officer Marks and Aubrey inside.

“Left-hand side of your desk, Chief. It has a red tab sticking out the top,” Bonnie’s sweet voice comes through his speaker.

“Well, I can’t find the damn thing,” he says, rummaging through the stack of documents covered with a brown paper bag and cellophane wrap from lunch.

“Imagine that.” Bonnie chuckles. “Be right there, Chief.”

“Officer Sam Marks,” he says, standing to greet him.

Marks extends his hand exchanging a hefty, heartfelt handshake. “Aubrey Raines...Chief Burns,” he introduces.

“You look familiar young lady,” Chief greets her with the same gracious handshake. “DeLuca,” the light bulb goes off. “You represented her last year.”

“Yes Sir,” Aubrey acknowledges respectfully.

“Call me Bob, please.” He motions toward two chairs sitting against the wall across from his desk. “You know I went to see DeLuca...Gina,” he corrects. “At the correctional facility. Doesn’t seem quite like herself.”

Marks looks at him confused, prepping to speak. Aubrey elbows him taking his words away, quickly interjecting, “Being incarcerated can do that to a person.” She smiles apprehensively at Chief.

“I guess so. What’s she have, another year?” Chief inquires of her sentencing.

“Yes Sir...Bob,” Aubrey confirms.

“I always liked DeLuca,” he says with a reminiscent smile, running his thumbs along the waistband of his pants, giving them a gentle tug before taking a seat. He looks to Marks. “So, Gronkowski sent you for his files?”

Marks nods, skittish about saying anything for fear it may be the wrong thing, his mind still turning, trying to figure out how Gina can be incarcerated and free as a bird in New Orleans at the same time.

“That boy just can’t let sleeping dogs lie.” Chief chuckles. “You tell him I said that. He’ll like that. I’ve been practicing my idioms.”

The smell of fragrant chocolate fills his office as Bonnie comes sashaying in, her auburn hair full and bouncing, her leopard print wrap dress accentuated with open-toed black strappy stilettos. She rifles through the paperwork on his desk removing the messy remnants from his lunch refraining from scolding him about the clutter, knowing it to be a lost cause. “Chief,” she says disappointed, wiping a smear of mustard from the wayward file, handing it over to him.

He eyes the folder quickly, tending to the residual stain with the cuff of his shirt, attempting a semblance of tidiness and order. “Bonnie, you remember Officer Marks,” Chief directs her attention to his company.

Expeditiously reorganizing his desk, she looks over her shoulder. “Of course. You transferred to New Orleans with Detective Gronkowski, right?”

Marks nods, his lack of words no longer related to misspeaking, but due to slight intimidation of the all-encompassing Secretary Bonnie, the highlight of many a young officer’s conversation while at Vanguard PD.

“And Aubrey Raines,” Chief introduces. “She defended DeLuca last year.”

With the mention of Gina’s name, Bonnie’s eyes light up. She spins around, her attention drawn. “How is she?”

Marks’ knee bounces up and down. Aubrey clears her throat searching for an answer without telling a lie. “As well as can be expected.”

“You know we still have people professing they’re the Vigilare,” Bonnie confides. “Huh, Chief? At least two or three times a week.”

“The whole damn city still has Vigilare fever,” he scoffs.

“I went to a Halloween party on the square,” Bonnie begins excitedly, “and you wouldn’t believe how many Vigilare costumes there were. Does she even have a costume?”

“That’s enough Vigilare talk,” Chief interrupts.

Bonnie rolls her eyes, smiling. “Are those Jimmy Choo’s?” Aubrey’s red patent leather high heels drawing her attention.

“Uh-huh.” Aubrey points her toe, giving Bonnie a better view.

“Those are to die for,” Bonnie squeals, kneeling to inspect the kicks.

“Jimmy Choo,” Chief says, shaking his head. “Sounds like it ought to be followed up with
bless you.”

Marks chuckles.

“Ooh, what did you do?” Bonnie notices Aubrey’s scuffed and slightly swollen ankle.

“You should’ve seen it, Chief,” Marks begins proudly. “You had a runaway...from booking. This one here,” he points his thumb sideways at Aubrey, “tackled and wrestled him into submission.”

Aubrey pokes him again with her elbow. “It was nothing, really. I don’t know what got into me.”

“Sounds like some pretty swift reflexes for a lawyer,” Chief comments suspiciously.

“Probably from hanging around with Gina,” Bonnie deduces. “I always wanted her to show me some moves.” She stands, kicking her leg out mimicking a martial arts maneuver. She and Aubrey giggle at her uncoordinated attempt.

Marks gulps, the kick exposing her thigh.

“Now you watch yourself. Those floors are slick.” Chief stands pulling a box of Gronkowski’s files from the corner, setting it down on his desk. “I think you better stick to being my right hand. You fall down and crack your head, I’ll be up shit creek without a boat.”

“And I think you better keep practicing those idioms.” Bonnie chuckles, knowing the appropriate adage is
up shit creek without a paddle.
She throws her arms around Aubrey, whispering in her ear, “You tell Gina, Viva Vigilare!” She waves at Marks as she exits the office.