He grinned. “Your help.”
“You don’t need my help.”
“Admitting I’m better at my job?”
“Admitting I’m swamped and don’t need another investigation eating into my free time and costing me tickets to a winning Mets game.”
“You were here last night?”
“Supposed to be here. Got stuck on frickin’ paperwork on a bust I worked with your brothers in blue in Brooklyn.” His dark eyes probed hers, and she said, “Dammit, DeLucca, you don’t need me.”
“Wallet gone, a ring appears to have been taken off her finger-we’ll confirm that with next of kin. But that car she was parked next to? The witnesses said they got here early and tailgated. Went in just before the first pitch. Space next to them was empty because they’d spread out, so she got here after the game started. No ticket stub found on her or in her vehicle.”
“And?”
“She’s in the damn parking lot.”
“Maybe she was going to buy from a scalper. Or at Will Call. Or it’s in her missing purse.”
“We’re looking at everything. But who comes to a game alone?”
Suzanne raised her hand.
“You’re not normal.”
She rolled her eyes. “Joe, I don’t want the case.”
“New stadium, family friendly, no real history of trouble. Break-ins, car theft, but nothing like this. Anything about the Cinderella case that was wonky?”
“No. The killer’s dead, taken out by FBI-SWAT. Clean kill. Weber wanted to write about the whack job’s psycho head.” And she was far too interested in the two civilian “consultants” whose names were supposed to be sealed. Damn, was Weber’s murder connected to her closed case?
“Was Weber working on anything else?”
“Don’t know.”
DeLucca looked at her again with his damn bedroom eyes.
“Fine. You win. You want to split this?”
“I’d rather work side by side.”
“Not going there.”
“Oh yes, you will.” He grinned.
“I’ll take victimology; you take the crime scene. Let me know when the autopsy’s done, and an ETA on trace evidence. If you need the FBI lab, let me know and I’ll expedite for you.”
“Dinner, tonight.”
“Not on your life.” Suzanne started walking away. A plane flew almost directly overhead and she didn’t hear DeLucca.
“Great!” he shouted after her. “See you then!”
She turned around. “I didn’t agree to anything.”
“Sure you did. Seven p.m., Roberta’s.”
“No.”
But she knew she’d be there. Worse, he knew she’d be there. It had been their favorite dinner spot when they were involved. She hadn’t been there in over a year, since they’d split.
But first things first. Time to find out what Rosemary Weber was really doing in the parking lot of Citi Field if she wasn’t going to the game. Joe DeLucca was right-this wasn’t a robbery. This was personal. The killer wanted Rosemary Weber dead. If Suzanne could figure out the why, it would lead them directly to the who.
CHAPTER TWO
Fifteen Years Ago
The night my sister died, our mother gave us the Game of Life.
Mom bought us guilt presents because, as Rachel said, she knew what she was doing was wrong. She thought if we just played quietly in the attic, we’d ignore what went on downstairs. But sound travels in old houses, and even if Mom said it was “just a party,” we knew better.
Dad had sort of finished off the attic two years ago, putting in insulation and a space heater and hooking up cable and Nintendo. It became my sanctuary, for me more than for my sister: I guess I just liked having my own private hideout. Mom bought a couple of beanbag chairs and two long, narrow throw rugs that fit the space when laid out side by side.
We were up there with our new game the night of the last party.
It took me nearly an hour to set everything up because all of the plastic pieces came attached to one frame and I had to break each one off. I didn’t ask Rachel to help because she was in a bad mood, pretending to read. I knew she wasn’t reading because she never turned a page in her book. The sound of the rain pounding on the pitched roof would have been scary if I was alone, but I wasn’t scared with my sister here.
“Ready,” I said. “There’s no purple car; do you want blue?” Purple was Rachel’s favorite color. Blue was mine.
“You can have blue.” Rachel sighed and put the unread book down. She picked up the red car.
I began to explain the rules, but Rachel cut me off. “I’ve played it before, at Jessie’s house.”
“Is that why you’re mad? Because Jessie said you couldn’t come over tonight?”
Rachel shrugged. “It’s not her fault.”
That was it. I had only just turned nine, but I knew my sister better than anyone, even our parents. “I wish Grams was here.”
“Yeah.”
Grams lived in Florida most of the year. Her arthritis was so bad, she could hardly walk when it was cold. Rachel and I always spent spring break with her, and we never wanted to come home. Grams came back to Newark in May and stayed for the summer. After Grandpa died two years ago, she stayed in the guest room and Mom and Dad didn’t have parties. They became almost normal parents.
We played quietly, but as the party got louder Rachel started getting mean. When she had to pay income tax, she leaned back and said, “I can’t concentrate.”
“It’s just the luck of the spinner,” I said. “But we can play something else. Mario Kart?”
She closed her eyes. “I hate them.”
My stomach hurt. She was talking about Mom and Dad. I didn’t like this Rachel. I just wanted everyone to be happy and like each other.
“Remember last time when we snuck out and got ice cream?” I said. “Want to do that again?”
“It’s raining too hard. I’m not mad at you, Petey, I just don’t want to be here, okay?”
“I know.” I bit my lip. “What about poker?”
“You’ll beat me at that, too.”
“I’ll let you win.”
She laughed, and my stomach hurt less because Rachel’s laugh makes me smile. She jumped up and tickled me. “You’re lying, munchkin.”
I giggled. “Blackjack? Yahtzee? I’ll give you a head start on Mario Kart, a whole lap if you want.”
Rachel sighed and rolled over to her back. The rain fell so fast I couldn’t separate individual raindrops. “Petey? Would you really want to live with Grams?”
“Live? Like forever?”
“When we visit next month, I’m going to tell Grams everything. She’ll let us stay. Maybe she’ll never come back to Newark, either. She only visits because of us.”
The pain in my stomach hurt more than ever. “Don’t do that. It’ll make Grams sad.”
She put her chin on her hand and looked at me. “I’m much older than you. I’ll be twelve next week; I know what’s best. Look at it this way: Either Grams tells Mom and Dad to stop with the stupid parties and we stay here without all this weird stuff, or we get to live in Florida. Right? And Grams’ friend Larry will take you fishing. Remember last year? We had a lot of fun on his boat.”
True. But Dad took me fishing, too. Sometimes. I bit my lip when I remembered I hadn’t gone fishing with Dad since before Grandpa died, because Grandpa always went with us.
“Mom and Dad would be sad.” I sounded like I was going to cry, and I didn’t want to be a baby, but I didn’t want anything to change that much. I just wanted a normal family.
“If they’re sad, they can cut out this shit.”
My eyes widened. “You said shit.”
“So did you.”
“Only because you said it first.”
Rachel smiled at me, but it was a sad face. I wished she didn’t think I was a little kid. I was nine, in third grade, and I was smart, too. All my teachers said so. They had wanted me to skip third grade, but my parents said no because I’m shorter than all the other third graders.
“Think about it, Pete, okay? I won’t say anything if you’re not okay with it.”