The Marshal's Pursuit (6 page)

She clamped her mouth shut—most would say a wise decision, considering the lack of polite responses milling about her mind. Giovanni was the selfish one in the family. She was the one who made the sacrifices to keep him happy. She’d always earned compliments from their parents and nonni on her ability to always be kind to others.

The train shifted forward; Malia hit the sink with her hip before grabbing the brass towel rack to steady herself. The marshal wobbled yet held his balance.

He gave her a strange look, as if he were actually concerned. “Are you all right?”

Though her hip throbbed, she nodded then stopped at the sudden dizziness. She clung to the towel rack until the spinning stopped.

“Miss Vaccarelli, when did you last eat or drink something?”

The sincere concern in his inquiry gave her pause.

You can’t trust a copper. Ever. They’re all corrupt.

Giovanni hadn’t had to repeat what she had heard all her life for her to remember Nonno’s warning. She’d also believed the Vaccarellis were a law-abiding family, and now the evidence pointed in the opposite direction. She didn’t always have to have her way, but she hated being wrong. She didn’t want to be wrong about the marshal too.

She needed a constant.

She needed him to be corrupt.

The marshal looked at her with a brazenness that reminded her of Edwin Daly. Not brazenness. Chutzpah—yes, that’s what the marshal had. For all his flaws, Mr. Daly knew art, loved it more than his job. What did this man love, know and breathe? What gave the marshal personal confidence and courage? What reigned in the core of his soul to give him that assured serenity he wore like a cloak? What—?

Stop! Who he was didn’t matter to her. No more pondering him. In three weeks, she would walk, to her delight, out of his life and never see him again.

Malia shook the soot off the damp cloth into the sink and resumed wiping the coat. “I ate earlier with Irene. Tuesdays are our weekly lunch date at Delmonico’s. Fridays we have dinner. Instead of eating at the restaurant for lunch, she had it delivered to—” She cut herself off upon realizing her chattiness. He didn’t care to know this. She was insignificant to him.

She didn’t have to turn her head to know he continued to study her. The man had perfected the art of thinking before speaking.

Then he broke the silence with, “The next twenty-one days will be more pleasant if you would start trusting me.”

“You’re a stranger to me.” Malia kept her attention on the coat. She wiped the collar. “I have no cause to trust you.”

“Neither do you have cause to distrust.”

“You. Are. A. Copper.”

“I’m a marshal. Not all coppers are corrupt.”

She turned to him. “Then tell me what you’re hiding.”

“Hiding?” His eyes widened, stunned. “I am not hiding anything. You, on the other hand, have already proved you will withhold information,” he pointed out.

“I didn’t—” With a grumble under her breath, she tossed the cloth into the sink and gave him her full attention. “What were you doing at the art exhibit this morning?”

“Following a lead.”

“Me?”

“No.”

“Then who was it?”

“That’s not information you need to know.”

Then what did he think she needed to know? Nothing? Shield her because she was a woman, therefore too fragile to handle the truth. Shield her as the Vaccarelli men had because they didn’t— Her chest flinched as if it’d been pierced, which it had, figuratively, by her family, and she was realizing the depth of it only now. Her family hadn’t trusted her with the truth about them.

“What you are saying,” she said with deliberateness, “is that you don’t trust me with information because you don’t believe I can be discreet. Or loyal. Why should I extend to you what you are unwilling to extend to me?”

* * *

Frank ran a hand through his hair, soot dust sprinkling to the carpeted floor. She was a witness. What he was doing at the exhibit was classified information. But the woman was neck deep in the mafiosi, the government needed her testimony and, realistically thinking, this was an extraordinary circumstance. He needed a truce between them, so it made sense to do whatever necessary to tear down her wall of animosity. And considering his plan for getting her somewhere safe meant having a plan separate from the one he’d arranged with the special prosecutor and her lawyer, he needed that truce within the hour.

He leaned against the doorframe in order to take some weight off his sore foot. “Edwin Daly is a mafiosi
informant.”

“He’s an assistant district attorney. He prosecutes gangsters.”

Prosecution and conviction weren’t the same thing, and Edwin Daly’s conviction record of gangsters was small.

“I have enough evidence to arrest him, but I also want the man who has been padding his pockets.”

She nodded, just nodded.

“Billy O’Flaherty.”

She frowned.

“His photograph was the second in the binder. You didn’t recognize him.”

“Oh. Why wasn’t Mr. Daly in the binder?”

“Until he’s brought up on charges, he’s still an assistant district attorney.”

She nodded as if that made sense to her.

She was rather nice to look at, with the contrast between her amber eyes and tobacco-colored hair worn piled on top of her head like a crown. A few strands grazed the part of her collarbone exposed by the wide neckline of her gown. Frank swallowed and returned his attention to her face. But it wasn’t merely those details that he found attractive. She didn’t lower her lids like a coquette. He’d noticed how she met Cady’s gaze with the same boldness as she met his, which was how she had also looked at Edwin Daly. Malia Vaccarelli wasn’t timid and insecure, which some men wouldn’t admire, but he did. He liked confident women, and when they were in lacy gowns that accentuated every feminine curve...

Frank cleared his throat. “I’m sorry you are caught up in this.”

She nodded again, just nodded.

“I’m not what you think I am,” he insisted. “Give me the benefit of the doubt.”

“And put my life at risk?”

“If I wanted you dead, we wouldn’t be speaking now.”

She opened her mouth then closed it.

Frank sighed. It’d been a long day, his foot was aching, he’d missed lunch and he didn’t care much for the musty smell inside the train car from the last passengers, but this conversation needed to happen now. “May I ask how it is you have such a negative view of law enforcement personnel?”

Her eyes flared. “Coppers beat my grandfather until he learned to speak to them in English,” she snapped, her beauty unblemished by the accusatory edge in her words. “Coppers beat my father until he paid for their protection. Weekly they collected donations from his businesses.”

“Is it possible,” he said softly, “that your father and grandfather did not share the whole truth regarding those events? That maybe they were beaten for mafiosi
involvement? The donations were really payoffs?”

She shifted uncomfortably, and when she spoke, her jaw barely moved. “Yes.”

He didn’t fault her for resenting his question. Nor did her animosity bother him. If he were in her shoes, he’d be as suspicious, angry and embarrassed as she was. Not to mention exhausted. But he couldn’t leave his questioning there. He had to push her into reevaluating what she’d been taught, so that she would open her mind to viewing him as her protector.

He ensured his tone stayed gentle. “In light of that, is it possible they were erroneous about all police being corrupt?” When she didn’t answer, he asked again, “Could they have been?”

“Yes,” she bit off. “Is that what you want to hear? You’re right, I’m wrong. You’re honorable, I’m debased. You’re—” Her voice broke; eyes welled with tears. She turned to the mirror, gripped the sink, her shoulders shaking as she cried. “I don’t know what...is wrong with...me. This isn’t— I don’t cry. I don’t yell at strangers...or friends...or family...or anyone at all.”

That didn’t surprise him. Anne Morgan had, indeed, described Miss Vaccarelli as a kindhearted soul, without an enemy in the world, someone able to put the most unfriendly sort at ease. Yet she looked battle-weary.

“You’ve had a rough day,” he offered.

She wiped her eyes, smearing the soot from her fingers onto her skin. “Oh, splendid.”

The train’s whistle blew and the train started to move forward to where they would pick up passengers. That meant he had only a specific amount of time in his metaphorical hourglass to reach that truce. Or else she wouldn’t get off the train with him. That then would mean he would have to toss her over his shoulder and carry her off, literally speaking.

Frank withdrew a handkerchief from his coat pocket and offered it to her. “Here.”

She took it with a whispered, “Thank you.”

He wasn’t one to take advantage of an injury, but he suspected she needed an excuse to sit down. Only her need to look strong would never admit it.

“My broken toe is screaming for me to give it a rest.” Not necessarily a lie because his foot was aching. He took a step back then motioned to the seating area. “Would you mind if we continued this conversation over there? Please?”

Chapter 6

One might say the perfect traveler is one whose digestion is perfect, whose disposition is cheerful, who can be enthusiastic under the most discouraging circumstances.

—Emily Price Post,
Etiquette

F
rank waited until Miss Vaccarelli passed him, then he followed her to the seating area near the front of the car. She sat on the edge of the sofa, clutching a fringed velvet pillow to her stomach as if it were a shield, leaving him the chairs to choose from. Frank sank into the chair to her left, the better of the two to give him a view of the locked door. No one was expected to enter, at least not until they made it to New Rochelle. Still, he kept a gun within easy reach. If he were at home, he’d prop his foot up on the table; at his office, up on a stool. Here he had to make do with extending his leg in front of him.

“How’s your arm?” It was an abrupt restart to their conversation, but it was superficial, inoffensive and, now that Frank thought of it, something he actually wanted to know.

She looked from one arm to the other then back at him. “They’re fine. Why do you ask?”

“Cady grabbed you pretty hard.”

Her lips formed an O. She touched the spot where Cady’s fist had clenched. “It doesn’t feel bruised.”

“Good. If it bruises, let me know.”

“And what will you do about it if it does? Demand a duel with the special prosecutor?”

That her expression was as serious as her tone caused Frank pause. So far in their short acquaintance, she’d shown no predilection toward sarcasm or a dry wit. Yet...

“I was thinking ice pack.” And then, because he couldn’t help himself: “But if a duel would please you more, milady, I’ll have one arranged.”

“I’m Van Kelly’s sister.” She said it in the same manner one would say,
I’m King Herod’s wife. I deserve neither pity nor mercy.

He touched the arm of the sofa, leaning forward. “No woman deserves a bruise.” He stared at her long enough for her to see he was deathly serious.

Something flickered in her eyes. A hint of gratitude, perhaps, but he hoped it was something more, such as the bud of an epiphany that he wasn’t the heathen she’d presumed him to be. Or something resembling a simple
You’re a good man, Frank Louden.

The train slowed, brakes squealing, and the whistle blew again. They were approaching the loading platform, where hundreds would pile into the Shore Line Express for the multitude of stops between here and Boston.

Frank eased back in his chair to give her needed space. Making her nervy would counter his progress, and he didn’t have time to tear down that wall a second time. “When people marry,” he said, “they don’t inherently trust one another.”

Her head tilted, and he could practically see the interest she had in what he would say next. Not all women were like that. Some didn’t want to spend an evening by the fire, just the two of them and a conversation. Some didn’t enjoy conversation...or, at least, not conversation with him. Some despised watching those stupid baseball games at the Polo Grounds. They wanted to go only to operas, symphonies and balls, which he didn’t mind attending. Relationships should be give-and-take, not all take.

“You were saying?” she put in.

Frank started at her voice, so lost in his thoughts. “Saying?”

“When people marry...?”

The train continued to slow, brakes squealing; tracks rattled underneath them, vibrating the floor. The whistle repeatedly blew. With the private coach still in the tunnel, no one could see them, no one would know they were here, unless someone came looking.

Frank shifted on his seat as his mind scrambled to remember his point. “When people marry, both partners choose to give the other the benefit of the doubt because they’re in love. As long as the benefit of the doubt is not destroyed, time and experience allow trust to grow. Our situation is similar even though the relationship is platonic.”

She was watching him with a curious expression. “Go on.”

“You’ve had twenty-five years of being taught one thing—law enforcement personnel are all corrupt. I can’t change your mind-set after only a few hours of our knowing each other.” She opened her mouth to speak, and Frank rushed out with, “It’s not a criticism, Miss Vaccarelli. I’m as much a creature of habit, upbringing and prejudices as you are, as anyone is. And not all habits, upbringing or prejudices are bad.”

Her lips pursed a bit. “I am not all you think I am either.”

That he doubted. She was as unveiled as they came.

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, fingers steepled together to form a hollow triangle. “All I ask is that you give me the benefit of the doubt until I can prove to you I’m trustworthy. I will extend the same to you.” He held her gaze, hoping she would see the sincerity in his eyes matched his tone. He didn’t know why her thinking favorably of him mattered, but it did. “Surely I’ve given you some reason to believe something good about me,” he said with a chuckle.

Her shoulders tightened; head shook.

Frank bit back from sharing the half dozen reasons that sprang to his mind. Twenty-five years had built a stronghold in her mind. He shouldn’t expect loosening a stone would be easy. “No offense taken. Would it be easier for you to list what I’ve done to justify your doubts regarding my good intentions?”

Her fingers nervously plucked at her skirt as they had in Cady’s office.

Frank shifted in his chair. Her discomfort was palpable. He could see in her body language her internal battle over how to respond. Change was hard enough without someone forcing you do it. He abhorred change himself, at least the kind thrust upon him by people seeking the best only for themselves. Contrary to what she believed, once she testified at the deposition, she wasn’t going back to her cozy Waldorf apartment and volunteering at the Museum of Art. In three weeks, Malia Vaccarelli would be dead. Explaining that to her would have to wait.

They sat for another minute or so.

She exhaled. Then she looked at him. “Mr. Louden, you evaluated me correctly in that I do like to have my own way. I can be terribly selfish.” She turned her face toward the coach’s front entrance. He could see only her profile. “Compounding the matter is that I’ve known for years the degree of my depravity. It is a battle I’ve yet to win.”

He understood. Selfishness infected him too, pointed out by every significant person in his life. But if a man wanted to climb a mountain, win a race, develop a successful invention, he had to make decisions for his best interest. What could a man accomplish if in all things he behaved selflessly and allowed others to move ahead of him in line? Starvation. Poverty. Last-place ribbon. A future processing evidence. The list could go on.

Frank grinned to lighten the mood, even though she wasn’t looking his way. “Selfishness isn’t the most appealing trait, but one I can relate to. I don’t fault you for taking the most comfortable seat in the coach, but be warned, if you leave it, it’s mine.”

She turned, gazing at him in confusion. “How is it you gained this epiphany about trust?”

“Personal experience.”

Pink tinged her cheeks. “I didn’t realize you were married.”

Frank walked to the side window and stared at the tunnel wall, the brick blackened with soot. So many safe, useless conversations they could be having, and yet Miss Vaccarelli ignored those in lieu of this one. In the windowpane he could see her reflection. She sat there, serenely, with her elegant hands folded in her lap, beckoning him to share his darkest secrets. It seemed the most natural thing in the world—their talking together.

“I was married,” he admitted, “for six months and fourteen days.”

Her lips parted with surprise. “I’m so sorry. Death is heartbreaking, and even more so when a loved one dies young.”

Frank released a wry chuckle. In a month, they would never see each other again. She didn’t need to know. He didn’t need to tell her, nor was he under any moral or ethical obligation to. Yet the words were there, already, on his tongue, waiting for breath to give them life. His heart pounded in nervous anticipation. The overwhelming need to confess to her was strange because he didn’t know her. He didn’t, but it felt as if he did.

“I’m divorced.”

“That must not have been an easy decision,” she answered without pause, or any judgmental underlying.

“For me, yes. She had no qualms.” Frank turned to face her, and with his hands behind his back, he leaned against the coach wall. The wood paneling vibrated against his palms. “I was twenty-two and didn’t know how to be the husband she wanted.”

“I’m sorry,” was all she said.

“Don’t be. Rose found another husband, and I found Jesus.” He let out a chuckle. “I say my life turned out for the better.”

She looked at him as if she wasn’t sure what to make of his comment.

“You can ask me anything,” he offered.

“My curiosity is piqued, as anyone’s would be, but it would be too forward to ask personal questions on such a short acquaintance.”

“Your response wounds me.”

Her brows rose, and he’d swear she was smiling—almost—because he knew he was.

“Yes, you do indeed look to be in pain,” she answered, and as he laughed, she continued on. “You must have marshally things to attend to, so I will leave you to court your melancholy.” Her gaze shifted from him to the table between the sofa and the chair. From the small stack, she claimed a book with a familiar green cover, opened it and began to read. Or at least pretend as if she was reading
Dorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies
...

Frank moved from the side wall to the connecting entrance to stand guard. Their conversation couldn’t end. Not like that.

“Miss Vaccarelli?”

She looked up. Her pink lips curved enough to count as a smile...on the
Mona Lisa.
“Yes?”

“I confided about being divorced because I want you to know you aren’t the only one with something in your life of which you’re ashamed.” He paused. “As a sworn officer of the law, I will give up my life to keep you safe. That’s the truth whether you trust me to do it or not.”

She nodded. He turned back to the coach door to listen. All he heard was her charming sigh and then her decidedly sociable voice. “Mr. Louden?”

“Yes?”

“Is this what Generals Lee and Grant felt like at Appomattox?”

The train whistled and started forward.

Frank looked over his shoulder. Her eyes, which had been so accusatory and antagonistic before, were softer. Kind. His feet itched to move back to the chair, to continue their conversation about him, about her, about the art exhibit this morning, if she wanted. Since making eye contact at the hotel, he had wanted to get to know her. Still did. But he held his ground because he was a marshal and she was a witness.

“It’s either a truce,” he said, offering her his most disarming smile, “or we’ve both passed out from starvation.”

Her lips twitched, he hoped, in amusement. “I choose your protection.”

That stunned him. “You don’t have a choice.”

The corner of her mouth eased upward. She gave him a look, one that needed no interpreting, but one quite familiar. He did, after all, have a mother, two grandmothers, four aunts, a sister, three wise-beyond-their-years (so they claimed) nieces and scores of female friends and acquaintances. None of them, though, appealed to him on the level this one did. Now that she wasn’t looking at him in hopes he’d fall off the face of the earth, her eyes reminded him of his grandfather’s prized cognac, imported from France and selfishly unshared. And that dot to the right of the center of her lips called forth all the wonders of her face.

She turned her attention to the book.

Her smug grin was one Frank was glad he couldn’t see anymore. Keeping her alive, he could do. Ensuring he didn’t do something foolish yet typical to those of his gender...

Approximately thirty minutes later

Brakes squeaked, the whistle screeched and the train slowed.

Malia turned to the next engrossing page in
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz.
New Rochelle was the first stop outside New York City. On a shelf in her bedroom were four empty commutation ticket books that used to contain sixty passages between the two cities, leftover souvenirs from her years at Vassar. The station was nowhere near as interesting as poor little Dorothy alone among those strange people of Oz with nothing to protect her but a round shining mark on her forehead by the Witch of the North.

It’d taken her several minutes to start reading because questions about Mr. Louden had flooded her mind. But once she entered the world L. Frank Baum had created, she soaked in every word. She should have bought the book a year ago, when it was first published.

“Miss Vaccarelli?”

Malia reluctantly looked up, closing the book but holding her place in chapter four with her thumb. He lounged in his chair with his legs crossed, while she, as dictated by Society, was allowed less freedom of posture. Back straight, shoulders erect, long neck high, hands elegantly posed. Every moment of a lady must be full of grace and dignity, while a man could nurse his foot if he pleased. What she’d give to kick off her shoes or flop onto her stomach as she read.

Mr. Louden leaned forward in his chair, his hat fitted snugly atop his wheat-blond hair, his pocket watch in hand. His eyes—as blue as the houses, clothes, sheets and rugs in Munchkin land—were watching her with such concern. And she felt— She felt— Her skin prickled with awareness. She couldn’t breathe. It was as if they were back at the hotel. That moment when it’d felt as if they were the only two people in the courtyard. The moment—seconds, really—stretched for hours. She expected him to wink, as one of the Scarecrow’s eyes had winked at Dorothy. He didn’t.

“Did you speak?” she asked, then cringed at the inanity of the question from a brain still stuck in a book. She corrected with: “I mean, you were saying?”

He closed the lid of his watch with a click.

“I’m playing a game of odds.” His voice was devoid of its earlier levity, now sounding as it had in the special prosecutor’s office—work-focused. “Considering the precautions I took to get you on the Shore Line Express, the odds are mafiosi
thugs aren’t also on the train. However, too many people in Cady’s office knew of the plan to take you to Boston, double back and then continue on to Long Island. I’m not willing to gamble that someone won’t squeal, either willingly or by force.”