Beauty & the Beast (15 page)

It didn’t matter. He had. His worry extended past placating Tess’s pissed-off cop brother. He wanted her to be okay. She was so little; if she ran into the streets, no car would ever see her. If she scampered off into Central Park, a squirrel would store her away in its acorn stash for the winter. Ever since Vincent had resumed a normal life—normal for him, anyway—and he, JT, had acquired a girlfriend who could drop him with one karate chop, his finely tuned protective instinct had had no target. No one to protect. Then Princess Mochi had whirred into his life like a bundle of joy dropped by a drone. He couldn’t stop envisioning her hurt, or worse. On his watch.

In his workout satchel, he placed the tranq gun, her leash, copies of their reward poster, and some printed-out photos of her. He also had her pic—okay, twenty—on his phone. He had more visual documentation of someone else’s puppy than his own parents had of him.

He went outside. “Mochi,” he called. “Princess Mochi.”

A quartet of young guys in hoodies approached. “Mochi,” one of them sang out. “Hey, man, we sellin’ Mochi tonight. Get you higher than the Statue of Liberty.” The four broke into laughter.

They didn’t faze JT. He showed them a photograph of Mochi and said, “Have you seen this dog?”

“Is that your mama?” the tallest one said. “She must be a good cook, yo, because look at her and look at you!”

Another said, “Hey, there’s a reward? Yeah, I seen her.” Off JT’s look, he nodded. “Swear it.”

“If you
really
see her, email the address on the poster,” JT said. No way did he want these comedians to call his cell at two in the morning just for kicks.

The shortest, youngest one looked at JT sweetly and said, “I hope you find her, mister.”

The kid’s sincerity triggered JT’s vulnerability and he felt a little shaky.
There’s hope for you
, he thought; aloud, he replied, “Thanks.”

The four princes of the hood sauntered on. JT continued to walk the block, calling, “Mochi, Princess Mochi!”

“Yeah, Mochi, yeah,” said a wizened old man who was sitting on a blanket beside a jelly jar with a few coins in it. He had a face like mahogany and was holding a sign that said US
VETERAN
G
OD BLESS YOU
. He raised a hand. “Her girl has her.”

JT regarded the man with skepticism. “What girl?”

The man regarded JT with equal skepticism. “What’s it worth to you?”

“If it’s good information that leads to, well, a collar, it’s worth a lot.” JT cracked a smile at his own weak joke and showed the man the leash.

The man said, “Her name’s Julia. Her nana lives in there.” He jabbed a thumb behind himself at a four-story brownstone. “Gives me coffee cake and we talk about
Star Wars.
”

“You and Julia’s nana?” He scrutinized the windows. “She lives in there?”

The man nodded. “I want my money now.”

“I’ll go talk to her.” He scanned the building. No doorman. There were individual doors with porches, and the one the man indicated had a sign that said No
SOLICITORS
. A
ND
I
ALREADY KNOW
J
ESUS
C
HRIST
.

It was dark out. She probably wouldn’t open the door to a stranger. He knocked anyway. Through the closed door, he said, “I’m looking for my chihuahua. Hello? She’s missing. A little dog. Julia may have seen—”

There was a lot of fumbling and lock-turning. JT remained composed. This was probably another dead end.

A stooped old lady with a kind smile and milky eyes peered up at him, or rather, in his direction. He had a suspicion that she was blind.

“Hi,” he said. “We’re dog-sitting and our dog went missing. It’s a chihuahua named Princess Mochi and—”

“Yes,” she said.

JT’s lips parted. “
Yes
?”

“Julia took her. Her mother called me to let me know.”

JT wanted to whoop for joy and hug her. He wanted to dance around in a circle with her. Instead, he said calmly, “May I have her phone number? Email? And possibly her street address?” When the woman hesitated, he said, “Or if you would get in touch with her and give her my contact information, I’d really appreciate it. We’ve been so worried.” He held out one of his university business cards. She didn’t see it in his hand.

“I think it would be all right if I gave you her work email,” she said, taking the card without looking at it. “They live about two hours north of here.”

JT didn’t care if they lived in Bolivia. He wished she would give him Julia’s mother’s home contact information— it would be agony to have to wait a whole night—but he’d take what he could get. Besides, he was one of the world’s foremost hackers and Tess was a cop. Between them, they could probably illegally obtain—

—
information that Julia’s mom would know we had not been given.

He had to cool his jets. Or charm this woman into giving him more information. “Thank you, Obi-Wan,” he said warmly.

Her smile was tentative. “I’ll be right back. I have her business card.”

She left the chain on, leaving JT on the porch. The veteran on the blanket said, “Beam me up, Scotty.”

“That’s
Star Trek
,” JT observed. “Is that what you talk about with her?”

The man replied, “It was the year everything changed.”

“That’s
Babylon Five
.”

“Here you go,” the old lady announced. She held JT’s holy grail—the business card—between her thumb and forefinger. As politely as he could, he plucked it from her and stared down at the back of it, where she had written:
Esther Kupperman
,
Antiques of Florence.
There was a phone number and an email address.

“She’s an antiques dealer?” JT asked.

“Their bookkeeper. Just call that number tomorrow and she can talk to you about the dog.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” He put it in his shirt pocket. “Here’s another one of mine.” Just in case.

“Stay shiny.” She shut the door.

JT stared after her. “She’s into
Firefly
? Huh.”

“Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s,” the veteran said, and JT fished out his wallet.

“I have thirty-seven dollars,” he told the old man. “I’ll give you the rest after I pick up the dog.”

“I can’t make change.” The man held out a hand. It was shaking.

JT gave him the bills. “Have you eaten lately?” He looked across the street at a deli. “Give me back the five. I’ll get you a sandwich.”

“No, it’s my money,” the man said, clinging to it. “Use your own.”

“It’s yours because I just gave it to you,” JT huffed. “I’m good for the reward. I’ll give it all to you later.”

“Thief! Thief!” he shouted, cowering with the bills in his fists.

“Seriously, listen,” JT began, then threw up his hands. “All right, it’s your money. Just hang on.”

He loped across the traffic to the deli and ordered a turkey and avocado sandwich with a big dill pickle and potato salad on the side. He bought the man a quart of milk and paid for it all on his debit card since he had twenty-nine cents left in his pocket. Then he sailed out of the deli and was waiting for a break in the stream of cars when someone grabbed the back of his jacket and yanked him into the alley.

“You steal that old man’s money?” asked a voice as he was whirled around.

The four hoodie guys surrounded him, glaring.

“No. I gave him money. And I just bought him a sandwich, too.” He held it out.

The tall one scowled at him. “You took his money to buy you a sandwich?”

“No, for him. And I didn’t take—”

“Give it to us. We’ll give it to him,” the kid insisted.

Right. In a million years.
JT scanned the quartet, his gaze landing on the short, sweet kid.

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“And
I’m
tellin’
y’all
the truth, you don’t give us that old man’s money, you goin’ to pay in another way, Grampa.”

“
Grampa
?” JT’s lips parted. “Do I look like… okay, okay.” He held up his hands. “I’ll get it. It’s in my gym bag.”

Tall Guy crossed his arms. Big mistake. Because JT was nobody’s grandfather and he had a big, badass tranq gun in that bag.

When he straightened up with the gun in his hands, their eyes went wide.

Pftt, pftt, pftt
—he shot the three biggest ones at point-blank range. They collapsed like marionettes. He spared the fourth one, the sweet one.

“What did you do?” the sweet one cried, dropping to his knees and grabbing onto Tall Guy. Then he cowered, covering his head. “Don’t do it, don’t! We was just hustling you!”

JT plucked out the tranq darts and showed them to the terrified boy. “I didn’t kill them. I didn’t even hurt them. These are tranquilizer darts. Like Tasers. They’re just unconscious.”

The kid bent close to Tall Guy’s face. “He’s still breathing. Call a ambulance, man.”

“He’s
fine.
I swear it.” The last thing JT needed was to get mixed up in a street crime.

“How did you do that? Where do you get those?”

It would be a kinder, gentler world if New York street gangs used tranquilizer guns instead of regular guns. Kind of like the 1960s version of the
Batman
TV series, where everything was a joke. Speaking of Batman, Robin had just had his day.

“When they wake up, tell them if they steer clear of me, there’s no problem.”

The boy shook his head as he lifted up Tall Guy’s arm and watched it fall back onto the ground.

“Mister, now there’s
three
problems. Mean problems. There’s no way they’ll skip payback.” He nudged one of the other guys, who didn’t respond, either. They were all still out, and would be for some time. “Do you live around here? Because you should move, yo. Like, right now.”

“Great, just great,” JT muttered. Putting away the gun, the milk and the sandwich, he forced a car to screech to a halt as he jumped into its lane, then zigzagged across the traffic lanes like a frog in a video game and wound up in front of the old man.

“I did not rob you,” JT said. He got the food and milk out of the gym bag and held them out. “Here’s your sandwich.”

The man was crying. “You took it. You took my money.”

“Here.” JT set down the food and the milk and stomped back toward his place. No. He couldn’t go home. The kid would be watching him so he could report to his homies where JT lived.

He called Tess. It went to voicemail.

“I have good news and bad news,” he said. “Call me back when you can.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Pleased to be included in his daughter’s dinner plans, Forrest Daugherty told Cat that he’d given his personal chef the night off, and suggested they dine at their scheduled dinner seating. There were two seatings per night in the formal dining room, and Cat and Vincent had yet to sample the cuisine. But Daugherty made up for that by offhandedly remarking that they’d all be eating at Captain Kilman’s table.

Cat had read up on cruise ship etiquette and dinner at the captain’s table was a singular honor. Time to dress up. She piled her hair on top of her head and accentuated her cheekbones with contouring blush. She added black jet chandelier earrings and a tassel necklace to match. Then she draped herself in a flowing, backless black raw silk gown and paired it with black silk heels and her new jacket. To her delight, Vincent had packed a tux, and they caused a stir when they walked into the dining room.

The space was filled with oval tables beneath crystal chandeliers shaped like enormous crowns; ice sculptures of dolphins and sea horses peered from oversized arrangements of orchids and bamboo. Large panorama windows framed the seemingly endless sea, which was filigreed with silver moonlight.

Forrest Daugherty rose from a table centered beneath a slightly larger crown chandelier and hailed them. As Cat and Vincent headed across the room in his direction, Vincent said, “Hmm.”

“What?” Cat looked at him. Her husband was focused on Bethany’s dad.

“His color’s off,” Vincent said.

“Maybe he’s seasick. The boat is rocking.”

Vincent narrowed his eyes as he studied Daugherty. “Not that much. Bethany told me about the stabilizers. She said it’s common knowledge among ship doctors that lots of passengers talk themselves into feeling seasick.”

“He looked really run-down the first time we met him,” Cat ventured. She cocked her head as she watched Vincent’s doctor-sense ratchet up a notch. “Do you think he’s sick-sick?”

“I’d hazard a yes.”

Heads turned speculatively as they wove among the tables. While this was the third night of the cruise, this was the first time they had shown up for their dinner seating. A heavily made-up woman was sitting on a white piano and singing in Spanish, and when she saw Vincent, she smiled and waved. He waved back and Cat arched a brow.

“One of my fans,” he explained to her.

“Oh, I see,” she said.

When they reached the table, they were formally introduced to the captain and the other officer present, Dr. Leslie Jones, a petite woman with bright red hair. To Vincent’s left were Stephan Klein and Dre Morton, who were celebrating their engagement. The captain had agreed to marry them in a shipboard ceremony during the cruise.

“Champagne for the table!” Stephan told their steward. Bulked-up and sandy-haired, Stephan smiled at his fiancé, who was much trimmer, with black hair and salt-and-pepper eyebrows. “I feel like buying champagne for the whole dining room.”

Dre smiled back, and Forrest Daugherty perked up and began to lift his hand. “No, Daddy. Don’t,” Bethany muttered. She rolled her eyes at Cat, who smiled at her and shrugged.
Rich parents, what are you going to do?

“So these are our newlyweds,” Dre said, leaning forward. He studied Cat’s face intently, and then frowned. She touched her hair, wondering if something was out of place.

“Tell me, does it feel different?” Stephan asked. “When you say ‘I do,’ I mean. What’s it like?”

“Perfect,” Cat murmured, smiling at Vincent. “And yes, it feels different.”