Chapter 11
Dr. Bartholomew Shaw’s office
“The text came in right as I was leaving the hardware store.”
Bartholomew’s eyes flare under his bushy eyebrows. “You went to the hardware store?”
“I needed a new set of screwdrivers.”
“Screwdrivers?”
“Yes. And will you stop repeating everything I say.”
Barty leans back in his chair, raising his hands in surrender.
“I’m simply surprised. That had to be some major repair that your maintenance guy, a driver, and three groundskeepers couldn’t handle themselves,” he chuckles. “You went to see the girl, didn’t you?”
“She wasn’t there,” I growl. “Switched her last shift to today instead, and Brahms didn’t sniff it out. I’ve cut his next month’s salary by a quarter for that.”
“It’s a wonder he still lives. What would you have said to her if she were there?”
“Nothing. There was no reason for us to talk. I just needed to see her to stop my migraine.”
“Was it a bad one?” he asks.
“It was. But it got worse after that damn text.”
“From your rhymey fellow? What did he tell you this time?”
“Usual nonsense. Best laid plans going awry. I’ve had it up to here with his bullshit. When I get my hands on the fucker, he’s a dead man.”
“Uh-oh. He’s really getting on your nerves, huh?”
“Extremely.” I pour myself a glass of mineral water, then take a drink. “I think I’ll cut off his hands and force bits of him down his own throat. One finger after another. He’ll never be able to type another message again. And I’ll enjoy his gagging noises as he’s made to chew and swallow.”
“That’s…graphic,” Barty coughs. “Pardon me. Even after all these years, I’m still startled when that side of you comes out. You very seldom shed the cultured mask.”
“People see what they want to see, Bartholomew.”
“True. But I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve started to show more and more cracks.”
My eyes narrow while I consider his words. “What do you mean?”
“Your escalated cursing, for instance.”
“There’s no need for me to pretend around you.”
“Of course not. But until a few months ago, that veiled persona never appeared. Not even with me. You were always well-spoken. Always polite. Always impeccably refined. Even when speaking openly about the terrible acts you’ve committed, you were formal, concise, matter-of-fact.
” He leans toward me over his desk. “Now, something has you rattled. To your very core. Could it be this cookie girl of yours?”
I laugh. “Christ, Barty. Do you really believe anyone could have such an impact on me? Especially a woman?”
“That would be extraordinary. Which is why this situation seems incomprehensible. But if it’s not true, why would you have this girl stalked around the clock? Why do you continue to seek her out?”
“We’ve been through this before. The girl is nothing but an unexplained anomaly. A breathing painkiller, which is the only reason I’m so-called interested in her. There’s nothing else to it.”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
My hand slips into my pocket, fingers curling around the plastic wrap. “Of course I’m sure.”
“Alright. Let’s get back to this rhymey fellow of yours. He sounds interesting.”
“Why?”
“Because he pisses you off.” Doc grins. “Considering everything he seems to know about you, it stands to reason that this individual is someone close to you. How come it’s taking you so long to find out who he is? You’ve got unlimited funds and manpower at your disposal, so how hard could it be?”
“The bastard uses burner phones. A new one each time. All Brahms managed to find out was that each text was sent from the Boston area. Since the asshole never accesses the network with the same phone twice, he’s untraceable.”
“Clever. And what about the business information he keeps getting his hands on? Isn’t there some protocol you could implement across your companies that would help track him down? Stem the leaks as soon as they happen?”
“That crap is too random. It’s only after shit happens that we trace it back to a breach. And, sometimes, he sends a threat but sits on it for weeks. Plus, with only Brahms knowing about this poetic motherfucker, it’s hardly a simple thing to solve.”
Bartholomew’s bushy eyebrows jump toward his hairline. “He’s the only one you trusted with that?”
“He is the only one I informed about the issue,” I correct. “I don’t trust people.”
“Oh, yes. I forgot about that little detail. Is that why you still won’t hire a personal chef and would rather eat out?”
“I’m not worried about being poisoned, Barty. I just don’t like the idea of someone thinking they know me well enough to anticipate how I will like my eggs.”
“You think that will make you more human in their eyes?”
“It doesn’t hurt to cover all the bases.”
Ding-Dong!
The old-fashioned bell over the main store entrance rings, announcing the arrival of a new customer.
“Be right with you!” I shout while trying to shove a box of screws onto the upper shelf.
The deliveries usually come in the mornings, and Walter, the owner, has the inventory all sorted before I clock in. But today, the truck was late. Arriving barely an hour before closing.
“Just give me another minute! Feel free to look around!” I holler again, still messing with the box of screws above my head.
My shifts at the hardware store are typically slow.
Most customers wait for the weekend to tackle home projects.
My hours are usually filled with straightening out the merchandise shelves, light restocking, and, on occasion, helping out the odd customer who happens to stop by.
More often than not, I end up entertaining one or two old guys from the neighborhood.
They like to pop in and chat, telling me about the “good old days.”
As I’m desperately trying to push the box that’s getting heavier by the second into place, footsteps echo at the front, where the customer must be checking out the aisles. Whoever it is, I’m sure they can handle themselves for a minute more. Because the stupid … Push … box … Push … won’t move.
Shoot. Something must have gotten stuck behind it.
I set the box down on the floor, then pull over a couple of small packages of vinyl tile Walter will need to move to the right place tomorrow.
Stacking one on top of the other, I make an improvised stool that’s about a foot high.
Climbing onto it, I can see toward the back of the shelf where I’ve been trying to shove the box of screws.
And I find a literal monkey wrench jammed against the far wall, impeding my progress.
“You gotta be kidding me,” I mumble, snatching the wrench out of the way, as those footsteps get closer. “Sorry about that. I just had to—”
The excuse dies on my tongue the moment I turn around. I was hoping it was Mr. Martinez. He loves dropping by at the end of my shift to tell me the latest on the litter of kittens he discovered in his attic.
Well, it’s not.
“Mr. Ruffo,” I choke out, not really believing my eyes. With me standing a foot off the ground, our faces are nearly at the same level. Seeing his glacial pools up close like this is even more unsettling than usual.
A swarm of those pesky butterflies takes flight inside my stomach, rising and swirling as if caught in an endless eddy. Ruffo was over at the don’s twice last week, so I should be somewhat used to seeing him by now. But never in a million years had I expected him to be in my hardware store.
“Good evening, sir. How…how can I help you?”
His left eyebrow lifts ever so slightly, as if he’s amused by my confusion. “I need a screwdriver.”
Screwdriver. Right.
“Well, we carry several brands and types, depending on the task you have in mind. We have flatheads, Phillips, torx, hex, Robertson, as well as some really good sets containing…”
I keep reciting the list of available tools and makers, words spilling out of my mouth in an endless torrent. My nerves are firing on all cylinders, and with every passing second, it feels as if my whole body is electrifying from the inside.
What is he doing here? There’s no way someone like him needs a hand tool out of the blue. Why is he looking at me like…that? Like…like he’s getting ready to pounce? And why does that look make those darn butterflies in my stomach flap harder?
“So, if you can tell me what you need it for, I can help you pick out the right one,” I finish in time with my heart rate reaching the summit of Everest.
Ruffo’s gaze doesn’t waver from mine as he leans to my left and plucks the closest screwdriver off the pegboard display of the cheapest tools in Walter’s store.
“This one will do.”
“That’s a T25 torx with a magnetic tip and nonslip handle.
” I nod quickly. “Great choice. Amazing value for the money. Has a wide application range. You can use it to assemble furniture or to tighten fences, but it also works if you need to fix household appliances. Computers. Or, uh, bikes.” Fixing bikes?
God, I need to stop talking. “Or...or, you know, whatever needs fixing. It can do— If that’ll be all, I’ll just ring you up. ”
A corner of his lips twitches. Is he trying not to laugh at me?
“That’s all, Little Iris.” His deep, velvety voice washes over me, making goose bumps break out across my flesh.
Thank God! Now, if I could just get him to step aside so I can get off this makeshift stand and—
“Don’t move.”
I freeze in response to the unexpected order. I don’t even get the chance to ask why before his screwdriver-holding hand swings toward my head. There’s just enough time for me to squeeze my eyes shut.
A slight breeze fans the hair near my ear at the same time a loud thud explodes nearby. The sound of the screwdriver striking the wooden frame of the shelf behind me.
I take a shaking breath, then another. When I finally open my eyes, I barely suppress a scream.
As if showcasing his handywork, Ruffo holds the tool right in front of my face. With a big, fat cockroach wriggling on the tip of the screwdriver.
“Resilient motherfucker,” he says, examining the bug. “You should let the owner know he needs to call in an exterminator.”
“Definitely,” I squeak.
“The head doesn’t appear damaged.” His eyes flit to mine. “Of the screwdriver, I mean. I’ll take it.”
Without another word, he turns and proceeds to the cash register. Hauling his prey away with him.
I take a couple of beats to let my racing heart slow, then jump off my support and dash after him.
As I ring up his purchase, I notice Ruffo staring at the open Tupperware container I left next to the register. He seems to be fascinated with the contents. The leftovers of my afternoon snack.
“Cheese crackers,” I mumble. “They’re homemade.”
“You made them?”
“Yup.”
Should I offer him some? A man like Ruffo is probably used to exotic delicacies. Would he even be interested in tasting my simple crackers? They’re good, but—
I’m still contemplating my next move when he reaches into the container and grabs the largest but slightly misshapen cracker.
“A fee. For pest disposal,” he grumbles before taking a bite.
I blink. Adriano Ruffo just made a joke?
His gaze holds mine as he slowly chews the cracker. That dangerous glint I’ve noticed blazing in his eyes on a few occasions flares up in his icy depths once more. I find myself completely snared by the sight. Mesmerized. Tempted.
The shrill ring of a phone comes from his pocket. He slips out a sleek, black device and holds it up to his ear without breaking our eye contact.
“What is it, Brahms?”
An agitated male voice speaks fast and loudly on the other side. I don’t catch everything that’s said, but I do hear a mention of missing money, and then a point about the culprit being found.
I bet the thief won’t fare well with Ruffo. He’ll fire them for sure. Maybe even press charges to send them to prison.
The caller seems to have finished talking while I was musing. I don’t hear anything else on the line, and Ruffo hasn’t yet answered. He’s just watching me with his unnerving gaze, still holding the half-eaten cracker. Maybe he’s reluctant to reply with me only a couple of feet away?
“Cut off his fingers. One for every grand he embezzled.” He tosses the rest of the cracker into his mouth, turns around, and casually strides out of the store.