little
spectral minds and I had no idea why.
I asked Gia to take a seat at the
kitchen table, and as she went past, made frantic signs at Mel and
Jack to get their attention. As Gia moved, Jack swung in behind
her, yelling something incomprehensible, and MeI tried to block
her. I winced as she walked right through Mel.
Mel froze. She and Jack exchanged
looks, looked at me, and simultaneously raced from the
room.
At times like this, when
pretending they don’t exist is really hard, I so wish I could tell
others about my roommates. Now I’d have to wait until Gia left to
discover what just happened. But although their behavior was
bizarre, seeing them in a rage kind of perked my spirits, maybe
because they did to Gia what I didn’t have the nerve to
do.
She sat at the table and I sat
opposite her. ”Where do you want to begin?” she asked without
preamble.
Out the corner of my eye, I saw Mac
creep around the edge of room until he stood beneath the windows.
His ears lay flat on his skull. He met my eyes, then made a dash
for the hallway. This was not the dog I knew.
I moved the pad of lined foolscap I
put there earlier to the edge of the table and picked up the pen. I
had to concentrate, push everything else to the back of my mind.
Whatever I felt about her, Gia was a client and I must treat her as
such. “How about the name of the motel in Tremonton?”
Gia took off her thin cream gloves and
laid them on the table. “Do you mind closing your
blinds?”
I obliged her and returned to my
chair. She must be worried someone would spot her, but what fun if
the neighbors saw famous Gia Sabato in my kitchen and mobbed her
when she left. I visualized her trying to force a path through a
dozen infatuated fans, and in my mind’s eye they were the oldest
and crotchetiest of my neighbors, enthusiastically waving pens and
pieces of paper in her face. That perked me up a tad
more.
But perhaps fans were not her concern.
Perhaps what had happened to her lover frightened her.
I jotted down the basic information
she gave me: names, addresses and telephone numbers of Rio’s
family, places of employment - although he had not worked since
meeting her - the names of his old friends she could recall, his
credit card accounts, social security number, etcetera, and the
name of the motel in Tremonton. I’m used to people being
uncomfortable when I question them, so I kept it brisk and
impersonal.
Then I leaned back in my chair. “Does
Rio have enemies?”
“ I don’t believe
so.”
“ Did he have enemies in the
past, anyone who would still want to get even?”
“ I. . . . There were little
gang feuds.”
Little gang feuds? That glossed over
the reality of gang life. “They call them vendettas, but you’re
right, they are feuds, ones which can last a lifetime.”
Her face went cold as this sank in.
“If an old rival is involved, I cannot help you. I don’t know who
he ran with back then.”
I gnawed on the end of the pen,
realized what I did and lowered it. “What about you? Could someone
be using Rio to get to you?”
She didn’t even think about it. “I
don’t have enemies, Miss Banks.”
Really? Well aren’t you
the lucky one. “What about
Daven?”
She visibly hesitated, then said, “I
don’t believe so.”
I hiked a questioning eyebrow. “But
you don’t know for sure.”
She flipped one hand dismissively.
“Daven and I are close friends, but we have our own
lives.”
Next question, then, the one to which
most women take offense. “Did Rio see other women?”
Instead of offense stiffening her
face, a gentle little smile curved her red lips. It surprised me,
as I was beginning to think she’d maybe had too many Botox
treatments to raise a genuine smile. “Rio is faithful to me, as I
am to him. I have absolutely no doubt of that.”
I tapped the pen on the pad. She spoke
with such certainty, I was inclined to believe her. “How did you
meet Rio?”
“ Does it have bearing on
his
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