Queen of Spades Page 7

  Her recon showed that if she drove the minivan down to the gate to collect her supplies right now—at two in the afternoon—the chances of another vehicle going by were slim.

  At the bottom of the driveway, Eva listened for any vehicles on the road. All she heard was the squawking of a flock of parrots in the trees above. That had always amazed her—how could there be wild parrots in Los Angeles? But there were. In Sicily, they’d had roaming packs of wild boar. Here they had wild parrots.

  She pressed the gate open so she could load the packages and bags into the back of the minivan. She was almost done when a voice in her ear had her reaching for her gun.

  Heart pounding, she whirled to see a boy on a bike.

  “Whoa,” he said, dropping his bike and running a few paces away when he saw the gun.

  “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. You startled me,” Eva said, heart pounding. Something about the boy reminded her of Lorenzo. For a second, she grew dizzy and had to grab hold of the side of the car, closing her eyes.

  “I can tell,” the boy said, giving her a wary look. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” Eva said, opening her eyes and trying to regain her composure.

  “Hey, are you a cop?”

  Eva felt her face grow hot. She tucked the gun back into her waistband and gave a slight nod. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Just reflexes.”

  The boy stared at her. She looked down, reaching for the last bag, hoping he was buying her lie.

  “Are you our new neighbor?”

  She stood, holding the bag in front of her, and nodded without meeting his eyes.

  He stayed silent.

  Her heart was pounding. Did he recognize her from the news?

  “Do you have a badge?”

  “I really don’t think….” her voice trailed off. It would be better if he thought she was a police officer.

  “Can I see it?”

  “I have to go.” All she wanted was to get the fuck away from this boy. He looked to be about the same age as Lorenzo, and talking to him was like having someone stab a knife through her heart. Please leave.

  “What’s your name?”

  Why was this kid out running around by himself in the middle of the day anyway?

  “How old are you?”

  “Ten.”

  Jesus Christ. He was the same age as Lorenzo. And he was grilling her. She pretended to arrange the grocery bags in the back of the vehicle, trying to stand in front of the license plate number in case this kid was a lot savvier than he let on.

  “Why aren’t you in school?” She tried to sound gruff. “Isn’t it against the law to be truant?”

  He scoffed. “It’s spring break. Duh.”

  “That’s right,” Eva said, smoothly. But inside she crumpled. She’d planned to take the kids to San Diego for spring break. “Where’s your dad?”

  “At work.”

  “He lets you stay home alone?”

  “Yeah.” Then he frowned. “Since you’re a cop, can you help me find something out about someone?”

  Eva narrowed her eyes. She didn’t answer, but that didn’t stop the boy from continuing to speak.

  “You see, my dad? He’s not my real dad.”

  Although Eva wanted to run far away from this boy, she waited. Being around him hurt too much. He even had a similar haircut and wore the same scruffy Converse sneakers that Lorenzo had. But at the same time, she yearned to hear him speak. It wasn’t his fault that speaking to him felt like a knife in her heart. He was obviously lonely or he wouldn’t still be here talking to her.

  “I want to find my real dad. If I give you, like, some of my spit, can you help me find my real dad?”

  At first Eva balked. What the hell? She wouldn’t even be living here long enough for the DNA results to come back. This kid was awfully ballsy. But then again, she liked that.

  “I don’t know. Don’t you like living with your dad? The one you have now?” Her voice was soft now.

  He nodded so hard his ball cap nearly came off. A long lock of brown hair fell over his eyes and his freckled nose. His eyes were wide pools of chocolate brown. They were lighter than Lorenzo’s dark orbs.

  “He thinks I don’t know. But I heard my mom talking.”

  “What if he doesn’t even know? Would you risk breaking his heart like that?” Eva realized she was talking to him like an adult. She decided to pull back.

  The boy swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “It’s just that he’s really sick. Like he’s not at work today. He’s at the doctor. He thinks I don’t know. But he has to go get stuff for cancer. He doesn’t want me to know. But I found out. I saw the report the doctor gave him. I know how to find things like that on the computer. We share an account on the cloud. He doesn’t think I know how to do stuff like that. I think he might die. And I can’t go live with my mother. She hates me.”

  “I doubt that.”

  He shrugged. “Believe what you want. She does.” He said it so matter-of-factly, looking down at his sneakers that Eva believed him. And her heart broke a little.

  He picked his bike back up and straddled it. “I gotta go.”

  Eva made a decision. As much as part of her never wanted to see or speak to another ten-year-old boy again, this kid obviously needed her and needed her help. She’d have to set aside her own pain.

  “I’ll get a test. And let you know when it gets here.”

  He smiled for the first time. “Thanks,” he said. “Hey, what’s your name?”

  She stared at him for a second and then answered, “Lucia.”

  “Loo-chee-a?”

  “Yes.” She smiled. “What’s your name?”

  “Dolan.”

  “Nice to meet you, Dolan.”

  She turned and closed the gate, watching his slender figure as he stood on his bike to gain the momentum to pedal up the steep hill. She watched him until he disappeared before she got into the minivan.

  Fifteen

  1990s

  Sicily

  The golden light of morning filled the bed chamber. The fresco on the wall opposite the bed always gave him a sense of security, wealth, and power—and made him super horny. He might be in his sixties, but he would never take those little blue pills. Not when he could wake every morning and be turned on by the orgy playing out on his wall.

  Ludovicus “Luigi the Arm” Mazzo had bought this crumbling villa with its location high on a hill for two reasons: so he could spot any enemy heading his way and for the frescos that covered several walls of the house. From the outside, the villa looked worn down and ordinary, but inside, spectacular frescos adorned ceilings and walls.

  But the best one of all was in the master bedroom. An ancient bacchanalia scene. It never failed to give him a massive hard-on. If he didn’t feel particularly randy from one glance, all he had to do was focus on the dark-haired beauty in the lower right corner. She was on her hands and knees pleasuring the woman of the house who had her head thrown back in pleasure while caressing her own bare breasts in ecstasy.

  It was a scene he’d lived out with other women, but never his own wife, the lady of his house.

  He’d begged Francesca to have a threesome with the black-haired maid who came on Tuesdays, but his wife had said if she was going to fuck a woman, she’d pick the woman.

  As he sat up in bed, propped on several silk-clad pillows, he reached under the covers and fumbled for his member, making sure he was rock solid hard before he rolled over toward Francesca.

  Her red hair splayed across the peach pillowslip, and one massive, soft, white breast stuck out where the covers had fallen away.

  Just then the phone rang. He groaned. It was from America.

  “What?” He snarled the word into the phone.

  “I saw you called.”

  “That was last night.”

  Francesca stirred beside him, one long-lashed eye opening.

  “Should I call back later?” the voice in his ear said.

  “Yes!”
He practically screamed the word and threw the phone down, reaching for his wife’s bare breast. She turned away.

  “Isn’t that thing in America over anyway.”

  She never liked to talk about his business directly, only in veiled terms.

  “It’s not over,” he said, growing even more irritated that his morning love session was being overridden by talk about her. Would he ever rid himself of her?

  “Haven’t you done enough?” Francesca asked.

  “Woman,” he said. “You don’t understand these matters.”

  “I think I do.” She threw back the peach silk sheet and reached for the gunmetal gray cigarette case on the nightstand. She tapped out a slim cigarette and stuck it between her voluptuous, full lips. Before she could reach for her matches, he held a flame at the tip of her cigarette.

  “Amore mio,” he said.

  She sighed, enjoying this fleeting moment of power and pampering. But she was wary. It wouldn’t last long. The sweet, remorseful part of the cycle of violence never did. The morning after he beat her to a pulp, he showered his affections on her. He’d spent most of the night weeping at her feet, hugging her knees, promising to never lift a finger against her again.

  “How do I know you meant what you said. Last night?” She swallowed as she spoke.

  “Tesoro mio.” My treasure. “Mi dispiace.” I’m sorry. “I will do better. I will be better. I promise. You know you are my queen.”

  She waited to answer until she had inhaled, turning her gaze to the sweeping panoramic view out the floor-to-ceiling windows. The grapes were coming in fine this year. Far in the distance, she could see the Tyrrhenian Sea twinkling. Somewhere across the hills to the west was the house where they had met. She had been a teenage prostitute, escaping an abusive father and trying to save money to go to the mainland. He’d taken one look at her and beaten her pimp to death, then brought her to this villa where he’d pampered her for years.

  She'd witnessed his violent side in that first encounter with him, but he had never exhibited violence with her directly...except a bit within their marital bed. And she'd liked that.

  From the very beginning, there had been an extraordinary sexual chemistry between them, and this often made up for the marriage’s other shortcomings, such as their inability to conceive a child and the fact that their luxurious lifestyle was financed by the blood of others.

  For the majority of their marriage, only the sex had been tinged with mutually pleasurable violence. If she ever said something hurt or asked him to stop, he always had. Until recently.

  He’d first raised his hand against her with truly malevolent intent a few weeks before. She was a cunning and intelligent woman and looked at the incidents logically, not emotionally. She had escaped a fate worse than death when he rescued her from the pimp. She was forever in his debt, so she had forgiven the first few times. But despite his weeping, remorse, and promises, the beatings continued. And she thought she might know why.

  “I’m a woman,” she said. “I say she’s been punished enough. Let her live in her own misery—knowing her family died because of her own actions.”

  “It’s not enough.”

  She inhaled before speaking. Lately, since their relationship had morphed into something unstable, she carefully measured her words before speaking. She never knew if what she said would trigger his rage. But if there were ever a time to speak her mind, it was now—when he was ashamed and remorseful.

  “My husband, what happened last night…” she paused as he winced. “What I’ve realized is that it all started a few weeks ago when this thing from America started to move forward. I can’t help but think there is some connection. That is why I ask you to let it go now, so we can go back to the way it was.”

  “There is no connection. Impossible.” He sat up, his face turning cold as stone.

  “What do you want?” she said.

  He reached over, his eyes hooded, and stroked her. A guilty lust raced through her. A few incidents of domestic violence didn’t blot out years of hot sex, she told herself. But deep inside, she knew she was justifying the way her body betrayed her—leaning into his touch and moaning.

  “I want her utterly destroyed.”

  As he said it, he grunted and flipped her over. In one smooth move, he entered her from behind without warning, expending his anger with each thrust. It didn’t take a degree in psychology for Francesca to know he was imagining that the woman groaning with pleasure under him was Eva Lucia Santella.

  Sixteen

  1990s

  Los Angeles

  Eva couldn’t help herself. As soon as the noon news came on, she sat glued before the large-screen TV, flipping through the channels, looking for any stories about her and her family.

  She told herself it would help her find the killer and that she was searching for more bread crumbs or clues the woman might have left for her. Because the card in Krystal’s car had been meant strictly for Eva. And it had been done during the live news shot.

  The news crews were back at the school. The interview had already begun. It was the principal of the Rembrandt Academy speaking into a grouping of microphones taped to a school podium in the library.

  “We don’t intend to let this tragedy affect our school,” she said. “It’s a shame that some parents feel that way.”

  “Are you saying that Nikos Alexopoulos withdrew his son from the school because of the slayings?”

  The woman bit her lip. Her cheeks grew slightly pink. “I do not know why Ricardo is no longer at our school.”

  Eva sat back, frowning. Did that mean that Nikos thought she had killed her family? Then she realized, why wouldn’t he? Everyone else did.

  A reporter with giraffe legs and long, flowing light brown hair asked the next question. “Is it true that several families have withdrawn their children, not just Mr. Alexopoulos.”

  Now the principal was visibly flustered. A small drop of sweat dripped down one brow.

  “I am not permitted to release the enrollment statistics at our academy. You will have to talk to the board of directors about that. I held this press conference to let everyone know that despite the terrible attack on our librarian Krystal Diamond, plans for the annual fundraiser are on track and on schedule. And we are still looking for donations—”

  Eva was about to turn the TV off when the station cut to the newsroom.

  “We are interrupting our coverage at the Rembrandt Academy because there is a press conference at the police station right now regarding the Malibu Colony Slayings.”

  Eva stared. Her family’s murder had a name. A nickname. It made her want to vomit.

  But then it got worse.

  The public information officer, a short guy in an ill-fitting suit, came to the podium. She closed her eyes and tuned out most of what he was saying about how the medical examiner’s office was still conducting its investigation into the cause of death of the three people and so on. But then she heard him introduce someone else. A Detective Jay Collins.

  Her eyes flicked back open. It was the detective assigned to the case. She needed to call him. She needed to point him in the right direction. She needed his help to find her family’s killer. She studied him, leaning in toward the TV. He wore a tight black T-shirt under a well-cut blazer as he stood in front of the podium on the steps of the police station. He sported aviator sunglasses and had silver streaks in thick black hair pushed back from his face.

  “Thank you all for coming. We have some new information on the White family murders.”

  Eva sighed in relief. At least the cops weren’t using that other stupid name that reduced her family’s lives to a true-crime show title.

  “We are asking the public’s help in locating the following vehicle, which we believe Mrs. White may be driving.”

  He reeled off the make, model, color, and license plate number of the minivan sitting in Eva’s garage. Shit. Then he showed a picture taken from a traffic camera of Eva in the minivan getti
ng onto the freeway near Krystal’s house. Ouch.

  “We also believe Ms. White now has dark hair, not the lighter color we had in a previous photo.”

  Eva was outraged. When did she lose her married “Mrs.” She wasn’t a Ms. But then her entire body felt deflated. She lost that title when they assumed she killed her family. Well, that was bullshit. She would think of herself as Mrs. White until the day she died. Nobody could take that away from her.

  The reporters continued to volley questions at the detective.

  “Have you named her as a suspect?”

  The detective didn’t flinch, but he did pause before saying firmly, “Mrs. White remains a person of interest. We would like to question her about what happened that day.” Again, he reeled off a tip line number where callers could remain anonymous. Eva memorized it. She wondered how “anonymous” it really was.

  There were murmurings among the reporters and then another reporter spoke up.

  “What else can you tell us about the Malibu Colony Killer?”

  “We will release more information as it becomes available.”

  The detective left the podium and stepped into the front door of the police station without another word.

  Eva took the burner phone out onto the back deck. She stood against the rail and punched in the number. She wasn’t going to bother to try to hide her voice. She wanted them to know who was calling. She wasn’t worried about them tracing the call. Her system was flawless. Any traces on the number would lead techs on a wild goose chase, sending them around the world and then landing right back in the Malibu house where she used to live. It would probably send them scrambling with lights and sirens to the beach house, which was a waste of their time and resources.

  She dialed.

  “Malibu Police Tip Line.”

  Good. Not a recording. A live person.

  “This is Eva White.” She waited a few seconds for the name to set in.

  “Oh. Oh. Oh!”

  “I need to speak to Detective Collins. Hurry because I’ll hang up if he’s not on the line in ninety seconds.”

  “Stand by.”