Chapter Two
Humming along the waterfront on her Zero DS electric motorcycle, Maji passed joggers in tank tops, kids swimming in the chilly waters of Long Island Sound, and picnickers lounging in the shade of leafy giant maples. She marveled at how cool the Kevlar air mesh jacket felt, light and porous yet snug and reassuringly rigid in all the places reinforced to protect bones and joints.
If she overshot the restaurant by a few miles, she could track down the neighborhood of stately spreads where Angelo grew up. Should she? Another night. Hard to believe they’d spent so much time in the same part of Long Island for so many years and never met. But then, his family didn’t grace places like Mona’s Dive-In. They went upscale and expected to be comped wherever they were recognized.
Mona didn’t comp anyone she wasn’t actually friends with, and she didn’t have any friends in their circles. At any rate, Angelo would be anywhere but the House that Death Built. And without him in it, his family’s estate would be just another overpriced property by the water. Once she got unpacked, she’d track down Dev and Tom, and catch up. They’d know where Ang was.
Maji pulled into the parking lot at the restaurant and smiled up at the sign reading Mona’s Dive-In, with its illustration of a 1940s poster girl in a bikini poised to dive into a milkshake. Mmm…a mocha shake. Home.
The sound of a couple arguing drove the reverie away. Maji spotted them standing on opposite sides of their maroon town car and pulled into the space next to them, on the driver’s side where the gray-haired guy in a sport coat couldn’t see her, but the woman on the passenger side could. A quick scan showed her to be much younger than the man, late twenties to midthirties. She was looking directly at the driver, hands pressing on the car’s roof as if to shove the man on the far side away from her, along with his vehicle.
“Go home, Frank. I’ll call you for a pickup,” she insisted in measured, crisp tones. Not in danger, then. Still, Maji kept an ear open while she stowed her helmet and gloves and zipped open her new jacket.
“He said to stick with you,” the middle-aged man protested. “That’s all she wrote.” Wiseguy?
“You’re old enough to be his father. You could make up your own mind.” Dark eyes glinted with frustration, offset by the olive skin and curly wisps of black-black hair that suggested the woman was Italian. But she didn’t dress like a Family girl; and she didn’t sound local.
“He’s a captain now. I’m just his lieutenant.” Oh, yeah. Definitely a wiseguy.
“Well,” the woman responded with obviously waning patience, “I am the commander-in-chief of my one-woman army. And I don’t need a babysitter. I don’t even need a driver.”
Startled to hear the nod to Ani DiFranco from an elegant woman chauffeured by a body man, Maji just stopped and watched the drama unfold. The woman noticed her standing by the bike, taking in the exchange, and gave Maji an almost sheepish half smile. In return, Maji gave her a sideways head bob with a bare twitch of a smile, as if to say, Better you than me.
The Frank character just shrugged, not picking up on the silent exchange. She could almost hear his Lawn Guyland tough-guy dismissal in that shrug: Whaddaya gonna do?
Maji skirted the town car and headed for the front entrance, keeping one eye on the woman, who slammed the car door and strode off toward the restaurant without looking back. Maji sped up to reach the door first and held it ajar for her. She caught herself. What are you doing, Rios? But before she could answer herself, the mystery woman reached the door and gave her an appreciative once-over.
“Thank you,” she said, with a slight incline of her head and a hint of a smile. If Gina Lollobrigida and Audrey Hepburn had produced a love child, she couldn’t have managed to be more fetching.
Ouch…don’t go there. Not tonight. She swallowed and nodded her politest, most noncommittal military nod.
Frank reached the door as his charge turned to check on him. He tried to take the door from Maji, but she held her place, gesturing for him to pass.
“After you, I insist.”
Frank hesitated, flummoxed. “Uh…”
The mystery woman’s face softened, tickled by his dilemma. “The word you’re looking for is thanks, Frank,” she coached him, one side of her mouth pulled into a smile that managed to look amused without smirking.
“Uh, sure. Thanks.” He gave Maji the cool-guy up-nod and strolled through.
Maji’s coconspirator winked at her, looking pleased by the unspoken inside joke they shared. Too late, Rios.
Inside, Maji let her eyes adjust, peeling off her jacket and enjoying the light breeze from the overhead fan. She caught sight of Bubbles waving to her from a table near the bar, and approached the not-so newlyweds.
“Maji, Rey,” Bubbles said, her excitement endearingly transparent.
Rey glanced fondly at his wife and extended a hand to Maji. With an old-school buzz cut and muscles hinting from under his polo shirt, he looked every bit the off-duty cop. But his open smile and Nuyorican accent gave him away as a long-lost brother from the city.
“Feel like I know ya already,” he said.
Maji grasped his hand in both of hers and returned the warmth. “Mucho gusto. Sorry I missed the Big Day,” she replied. “Felicidades.”
Rey took his hand back with a shy smile. Not all tough guy, then. Good. Bubbles needed tenderness more than anything.
“And…thanks for Christmas,” Maji added. Their first as a married couple, and Bubbles had spent it in an Army hospital with her. No stille nacht in Landstuhl, despite the snow outside. Having her best friend there had made it bearable.
“La Bubbles would do anything to get out of Midnight Mass with the whole Martinez familia,” he joked. More seriously, he added, “You know how she is about churches.”
The way Rey said both facts told Maji everything she needed to know. The darkness of Bubbles’s past hadn’t scared him off. He really was family, and she had some catching up to do.
From back behind the bar, out of the depths of the kitchen, Mona bustled toward them, apron spattered and hands fluttering as if to clear a path to the prodigal child.
“Majida Rios!” she exclaimed. “I thought you’d never come home! Welcome back, sweetie.” Maji stood to let the older woman wrap her in a fierce hug. When Mona let her go, mascara smudging, she held her at arm’s length and confirmed Maji’s wholeness for herself. “That looker in the back bought you a beer,” she said, adding a cheesy wink. “Whadda you want to go with it? Anything—my treat. Ribs?”
Maji shook her head, flushing slightly under her tan. “I’m on the bike, Mona—zero-T.” It had been Mona who taught her the zero-tolerance rule for motorcycle riding and alcohol. Seemed like another lifetime now.
Mona gave her a squeeze. “Anything you want, sugar. Mocha shake?”
“Now you’re talking.” Maji turned her head toward Rey. “You want the beer?”
He half inclined his head, a done deal.
Maji looked back to Mona. “And, um, veggie burger?”
As Mona headed back to the grill, Bubbles smirked skeptically at her lean friend. “Veggie burger?”
“Maybe I’m watching my weight,” Maji replied, glancing away.
“With fries and a shake? Your idea of a diet is the see-food diet.”
Maji sank into her chair and ignored the bait, turning instead to Rey. “Does she give you grief like this, or is it just my welcome home present?”
Rey chuckled, then sombered a touch. “Guess she missed you. La Bubbles siempre me molesta when I been gone a few days.”
“Days?” Bubbles retorted. “Sometimes weeks.”
Maji gave Rey a quizzical look. “Business travel? I thought you were a cop.”
He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “Claro. Lotta undercover time, though.”
“Special Agent Martinez to you,” Bubbles clarified, emphasizing the special.
Rey rolled his eyes, and Maji restrained herself from asking which agency his was with. FBI? DOJ? DEA? Please God, not the CIA. She took his cue and steered them to small-town catch-up talk. Bubbles filled her in on who had moved away, gotten hitched, gotten divorced. And died, besides Ava.
When Bubbles left them to check on their order, Maji surprised herself with a personal question for the other vet. “Were you Special Forces?”
Rey shook his head. “Nah. Just an MP. But after my tour, the day-to-day same-ol’, same-ol’ just felt so flat. Tu sabes?”
“Claro,” she affirmed, oddly relieved. Everything in civilian life seemed to move in slow motion. “You missed the adrenaline?”
“More than that,” Rey answered, leaning forward. “Being part of something that mattered.” He looked at her, thinking. “Knowing who had my back. Tu sabes.” Not a question, this time.
She nodded.
Bubbles returned and was halfway seated when Mona’s voice rang out, “Order up! Three burgers, fries, and a shake!” Maji rose, motioning the blonde to sit.
Maji smiled at the sight of the loaded tray on the bar. The sound of a man two stools over, speaking loudly into his cell phone, distracted her from thoughts of supper. She slowed to listen in, noticing the tattoos on his knuckles. Not good.
“Pull to the back door when the old guy lights up out front,” he instructed in Russian.
As he spoke, Frank walked past her toward the front door, his oblivious image in the mirror over the bar already fishing in his sport jacket for a pack of smokes.
She grabbed the tray, giving the Russian an indifferent glance as he stood, still on the phone. “We’ll only have a minute to take the girl. Be ready for me.”
Maybe they were the mystery woman’s rescue squad. But Maji’s gut said no—and to get backup. She dashed for her table, leaning in and speaking sharply while abandoning the tray to her friends. “Call 9-1-1. Female hostage out back, two gunmen—plus me.”
Maji left them staring at one another as she jogged toward the back hallway in search of the Russian and the woman. She spotted them almost to the back door already, in the hallway by the restrooms. The beefy man muscled his frightened hostage toward the exit, one hand clamped over her mouth. Slow him down, don’t alarm him. Maji changed posture midstride, nearing them. “Yo, drink lady!” she bellowed good-naturedly. “You’re not leavin’ without me?”
The big guy pivoted neatly for someone of his bulk, revealing a pistol pressed into his captive’s ribs. “No trouble. Buzz off.”
No room to maneuver here. Maji raised both arms, looking alarmed, and took a step back. “Chee-zus!” she exhaled. “None of my business!”
The Russian shoved his resistant victim through the door ahead of him, scraping his shoulder on the jamb to keep his grip on her. As it started to close, Maji reached out to push through on their heels.
“Maji?” Bubbles squeaked behind her. Maji turned halfway back, waved her to stay away.
“Sirens,” her friend blurted, their old shorthand for police on the way.
Today, the cops coming was good news. “Thanks,” Maji replied, disappearing through the door.
In the back alley by the dumpsters, a black SUV sat idling, diesel fumes mixing with the sickly sweet odor from the trash and compost. The driver watched edgily as his partner struggled to open the back door while grappling with the feisty woman in his arms. So only one of you is in this to win it.
“Back off,” Maji barked in full command voice, drawing both men’s attention to her. “Cops are coming. Let her go—now!”
As she marched toward him, the captive-wrestler stopped fussing with the door and turned partway toward Maji. He took in her five-foot-four frame as she looked up at him, her empty palms raised as if to placate him. “We go,” he responded flatly. “You back off, or I shoot you.”
Finally coming to his partner’s aid, the driver started to open his door. Maji slammed it on his hand, barking out in Russian, “Stay inside.”
He seemed inclined to comply, but she left a hand on the car door in case, pinning his hand. Keeping just enough awareness to act if he moved, Maji directed her main message to the armed man towering mere feet from her. The one still holding the civilian. “Losing the girl will make your boss mad, but not as mad as if you go up for murder,” she said slowly and clearly in Russian. “She’s not worth that.”
The big man snorted, masking his surprise at her use of his language. “Prison doesn’t frighten me, little girl. American prison is summer camp.”
Definitely a Vor, and proud of it. Work that. She sneered at him. “Oh, you like prison, suka? Then you can kiss the cops hello, suka.”
The carefully targeted barb did its job. He looked startled, then irate, pushing his captive behind him and raising his gun abruptly.
Maji tracked the gun’s arc and shifted sideways slightly while stepping in toward the Russian, grabbing his wrist, and sweeping his feet out from under him. The gun skittered off toward the restaurant door as sirens erupted at the far end of the alley. The driver gunned the SUV and screeched out, not bothering to close his door completely after pulling his mangled hand inside.
Rey, Bubbles, and Frank spilled out of the back to find the police cruiser bouncing to a halt beside Maji, her knee on the Russian’s back, his arms twisted behind him. The intended target climbed to her feet, using the cruiser’s hood for support, pale and shaky. Rey and Frank hung back, Maji noticed. But Bubbles beelined for the woman as the uniformed officers emerged, hands on holsters. Guess we got a gun drill after all.
* * *
When Maji walked out of the office behind the empty reception desk inside the Nassau County second precinct station, Frank was waiting on a wooden bench, worry written all over his face. She lifted the hinged wooden counter, and he rose.
“She okay?”
“I’m sure she’s fine. The medic cleared her. They just have a lot of questions.” Maji started to walk past him.
“Where you goin’?”
“Home. I’ve had enough fun for one day.”
“Hang out with me, I’ll give you a lift after,” he offered.
Maji didn’t pause. “S’all right, really. Thanks.”
“You can’t just leave her like that,” Frank blurted.
Maji stopped and turned halfway, tilted her head in disbelief.
“I mean,” he tried again, “she bought you a drink. She likes you. She’d wanna say thanks herself.”
“Look, that was very sweet, I’m sure. But I don’t take drinks from women dating guys. It’s a strict policy.”
He smiled. “You really gotta meet her. Rose don’t break your policy, I promise.”
Rose, huh? That fits. Maji hesitated.
“Please,” he added, more puppy dog than wiseguy.
So she sat quietly with him on the wooden bench, just to be polite, looking toward the exit rather than the offices.
Frank jiggled his knee and fidgeted with his pack of cigarettes. “If you don’t mind my askin’,” he started in, asking, “where’d you learn all that?”
“All what?”
“That commando shit—takin’ down some chucklehead with a piece on him.”
“Mostly in the service.” Let’s drop it there, okay?
“Iraq?” He pronounced it eye-rack. “I heard they sent girls now. Thought they couldn’t do combat, though.”
She took a breath, looked straight ahead. “When you’re downrange, the front line keeps moving. Pays to be prepared.”
“Huh.” He paused to reflect. “All the girls in ’Nam was nurses. Great girls, don’t get me wrong, they just didn’t do all that, back then.”
“Yup.” One more step down that path, dude, and I am out of here.
“Well, you saved my ass tonight. I owe ya.”
She picked up his pack of cigarettes and made a show of reading the warning label. “Shoulda read the warning.” Seeing his puzzled look from the corner of her eye, she continued, deadpan, “See? Says right here they’re hazardous to your health.”
He looked sideways at her, then laughed. She would have laid money on his saying You’re all right next; but the office door opened, saving them both from that. Frank hopped up at the sight of Rose. Maji remained seated.
As he walked her to the hallway, holding the counter up for her, Captain Andrews gave Rose his card and the usual send-off. “Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. diStephano. If you think of anything else, my direct line is on the card.”
He was a lot nicer to Maji than the old captain had been. Of course, he hadn’t worked here when she was a teenager. Even the old-timers were nice to her, though, treating her like a grown-up thanks to her tour of duty. It felt odd, frankly. She was all grown up, but the kind of stunts she’d pulled a decade ago tended to stick with you in a small town. Oh, well, as Ava always said, never spit at kindness.
Captain Andrews caught sight of her. “Ms. Rios, not home with an ice pack? Did you think of something to add?”
“No, sir. Just seeing things through.” So easy to snap back into formation. Comfortable.
He nodded in approval. “You ever need a job, I’d like you to consider the county. Vets’ preference, good benefits, and we always need more women in the field.”
“I’m not looking for a new uniform.” Too harsh? “But thanks.”
During the exchange, Frank had gone for the car, but Rose diStephano waited by the door for her. “I hear we’re giving you a lift home.” Her eyes sparkled. God, they were…beautiful.
“If you don’t mind.” Maji took care to keep any hint of flirtation from her own voice.
“Not at all, I’m delighted. But I owe you supper, at least.”
“There’s nothing open around here this late, but thanks.”
“Then let me cook for you—it’s the least I can do. Please?” She held the door open for Maji.
“No, I insist. After you.”
“No, no—after you.”
Maji smiled,and waltzed through the door. It’s just supper.
On the landing, Maji asked to borrow Rose’s phone. She got Hannah’s machine, left a message that all was well, and not to wait up.
“You have someone at home? I should have asked.” Chagrin clouded Rose’s face.
“Just my aunt.” And good for you for caring.
The captivating smile returned. “That’s settled, then. A good meal, and a good night’s sleep.” She nearly skipped down the stairs to the waiting town car.
Maji hesitated. Slow down, Rios. Then her feet started down the stairs of their own accord.
The back of the town car felt intimate but exposed at the same time. Periodically, Maji caught Frank peeking at them with the rearview mirror. The wide leather bench seat seemed a broad expanse, until the VIP extended her hand.
“I’m Rose, by the way. And you’re, is it—Mah-gee?”
Maji felt momentarily exposed, having a stranger call her by her real name. Roll with it, Rios. Just part of being home. She took the proffered hand and grasped it lightly. “Close enough.”
“No, really,” Rose insisted, squeezing Maji’s hand. “How do you say it?”
Maji pulled her hand back, taking a slow breath to settle the butterflies. “If you’re a Spanish speaker, it’s ma-hee. If you’re American, it’s madg-ee, more or less. If you’re Middle Eastern or French, it’s ma-zhee, like je ne sais quoi.”
“Wow. Three chances, and I missed them all. Which do you prefer?”
Any one you say. Your voice is like a samba in the moonlight. “The third. But I’m used to every variation, really. It’s not a big deal.”
“Sure it is. Maji. Better?”
“Perfect will do. Parlez-vous?”
“Mais oui. Some book learning, and a little culinary tourism. You?”
“Not so much.”
“Well, your accent is very good. They say that’s the hardest part.”
Sooner than Maji expected, the town car’s wheels left the streets and shushed over a long driveway. From what she could see in the dark, it was a large house, almost stately. Inside, Frank flicked on lights—a formal dining room with heavy, dark wood furniture, a sitting room with beige carpet and overstuffed sofa and armchairs, both tidy but ready for use.