The Merchant of Death (Playing the Fool, #2) Page 7

  “The right thing is making sure this place is safe for Vi.” Henry straightened. “We need to talk to Crowley’s son.”

  “I told you, I couldn’t find anything.”

  “They’ll have his contact info in Crowley’s file here. We just need to get ahold of that fi—” Henry fidgeted suddenly and put a hand up to his shoulder.

  “Something wrong?”

  “I think I broke a bra strap.”

  Mac watched Henry’s fingers fiddle with the fabric of the dress. “Henry . . .”

  Henry’s eyes were large. For a moment, Mac didn’t know if he was getting played or not; if that innocent-but-needy look was intentional, or if Henry was showing his real face for once.

  He cleared his throat. “I talked to a contact in the Zionsville PD.”

  “You did?”

  “There was no autopsy on Mr. Crowley,” he said.

  “That’s suspicious, right?”

  “Not necessarily. He was old, and he wasn’t in great health, and the family didn’t ask for one. His regular doctor signed off on it. Do you know what renal failure is?”

  “When the renal doesn’t work anymore?”

  Mac snorted. “Anyway, Mr. Crowley was sick and old, and he died.”

  “What?” Henry flicked a length of hair over his shoulder, and dug his fingers into the neckline of his dress. “So you came all this way to tell me that you’re not going to help me?”

  “I did help you,” he said firmly. “That thing where I called people and asked questions? That was helping you. But there’s not a crime here. Look, if you need to do this to prove to yourself that this place is still right for your sister, then I think you’re crazy, but I get it. And maybe the pudding tastes weird and maybe you don’t like the lady in the Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt, and maybe it just plain sucks that Viola has to stay in a place like this, but that doesn’t make it a crime scene, okay?”

  He half expected Henry to say something crazy. Instead, Henry dropped his gaze, and Mac felt a strange surge of guilt for ripping the wind out of his sails like that.

  “Why’d you come back then?”

  Mac wasn’t entirely certain himself. “To make sure you were still here. To make sure you’re not going to vanish instead of testifying. And to bring you back your stuff.”

  He gestured to the plastic bag he’d left lying on the floor. Henry’s belongings from the hotel in Indianapolis. A few items of clothing and his book of Shakespeare.

  “Thanks,” Henry said, still not looking at him. He picked up a plastic ring from Viola’s dresser and turned it over in his palm. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, but close to breaking. “She looked after me, Mac. I gotta do the same for her.”

  “Come here,” Mac said, and didn’t wait for him to respond. He took a step to close the distance between them, and wrapped his arms around Henry. Whatever had happened in his past, with his juvie record, with Viola, however it had shaped him, none of it mattered now. Henry needed someone, and Mac was here. It was allowed to be that simple, wasn’t it? He rubbed Henry’s back gently. “So who looks after you now?”

  Henry breathed against his neck. Mumbled something dissenting, but didn’t pull away.

  He even smelled like a girl. Mac couldn’t help inhaling deeply to catch more of the scent: a citrusy summery fragrance. And Henry just stood there, unresisting, leaning into his embrace as though he really did need it. A dangerous fantasy, for both of them.

  Mac slid his hands lower, rubbing the fabric of the dress over the knots in Henry’s spine. Cupping one hand around Henry’s ass, and pulling him closer. Heat pooled in his groin as he felt Henry’s erection pressing against him. That was one thing the thin dress couldn’t hide.

  He widened his stance, and Henry shifted so that he was half-straddling Mac’s thigh. He tilted his head and licked a line up Mac’s throat, before sighing against his ear. “Pretty sure I won’t be able to explain a mess like that in my laundry, Mac.”

  “I’ll take your laundry with me when I go.”

  Henry rocked against him. “I’m trying real hard not to think about the fact that I’m wearing Viola’s underwear.”

  Mac snorted and made a face.

  “Sorry.” Henry leaned back, putting his arms around Mac’s neck. “Mood killer, right?”

  He pretended to consider that for a moment. “Well, I don’t know Viola. So I might be okay with it.”

  Henry’s smile was hesitant. “Yeah, sorry, it’s a bit too weird.”

  “Weirder than the pudding?”

  “It said it was banana, Mac. But it didn’t taste anything like banana.”

  Mac shook his head. “You’re something else, Henry Page.”

  Sebastian Hanes.

  He wondered if there would ever be a time when Henry would let him call him by his real name. Wondered why Henry hated to hear it so much.

  Henry let him go and stepped back. He adjusted his dress, sighing at the way his erection tented the fabric. “I think I’m gonna need a long shower tonight, Mac.”

  “Need anyone to wash your back?”

  Henry’s eyes darkened. “When I leave here, when Viola’s safe, I’ll take you up on that. You can wash my back, and then I’ll suck you so hard you won’t be able to walk straight.”

  “Henry,” he said. “Don’t make me walk past the nurses’ station with a hard-on, please.”

  “Turnabout’s fair play.” Henry adjusted his dress again. “And then, when you’ve recovered the power of speech, we’ll talk about who’s topping and who’s bottoming.”

  Mac raised his eyebrows.

  “What?” Henry twirled, the dress floating out. “You think just because I’m dressed like a girl that I’m automatically the bottom?”

  “Not at all,” Mac said. “I was just wondering why we needed to discuss it when we could just toss a coin to see who goes first.”

  “I like it when you surprise me, Mac. Not very many people surprise me.” Henry grinned and turned around. “Now, help me with my bra?”

  He slipped his hand down the back of Henry’s dress. “It’s not snapped. It’s come off its little hook thingy. Why is there a little hook thingy?”

  “It’s a convertible bra,” Henry said, sweeping his hair off his neck. “You can take the straps off it and wear it with a strapless dress, or do a crossover thingy for dresses with shapes cut in the back.”

  “Why are you wearing such a complicated bra?”

  “I borrowed it off a friend. It was the only one she had spare.”

  Mac tried to catch the plastic loop on the hook, and missed. “This is ridiculous.”

  Henry reached up to cup his hands over his fake breasts, which were being jerked from side to side as Mac struggled with the strap.

  “Those,” he said, “are very convincing, by the way.”

  “I think they’re silicone,” Henry said. “They feel weird. Wanna poke them?”

  “No thanks.”

  Henry jabbed a finger into one. “If I was a girl, I’d probably poke my boobs all the time.”

  Mac rolled his eyes. “I bet you wouldn’t.”

  “No.” Henry pressed back against Mac, his ass rubbing against his crotch. “I’d find some nice, big FBI guy to poke them for me.”

  “Well, you’re barking up the wrong tree here, young lady,” Mac said, trying for a severe tone and completely fucking it up.

  “Oh, am I, Officer?” Henry sighed theatrically. “It’s not my boobs you want to poke, is it? But I’ll have to warn you, if you try and take my underwear off, you’re in for a big surprise.”

  Mac dipped his head forward and nipped Henry’s throat. “Stop. Teasing. Me.”

  “Or what?” Henry asked, his eyes half-closed and his voice low.

  “Or I’ll throw you down on that bed and show you exactly how much I don’t care for these.” He slid a hand down the front of Henry’s dress and squeezed a fake breast through the fabric of the bra. “And I’d make you come so hard that you actually
shut your mouth for five minutes.”

  “Mmm.” Henry wiggled. “Sounds like fun, Agent McGuinness. But first let’s get my boobs sorted out.”

  Mac withdrew his hand, just as Henry’s door swung open.

  The lady in the Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt gawped at them.

  Which was when Mac realized he was pressed up flush against the backside of a mentally disabled woman, one hand on her waist and the other on her shoulder, and her bra strap was hanging out of her rumpled dress.

  Whoops.

  “Viola!” Dreama exclaimed. “What on earth is going on here?”

  Henry straightened up. “What?”

  Dreama squared her shoulders. Her sweatshirt stretched across her ample bosom, giving Pooh a disturbing leer, which effectively killed Henry’s hard-on. “Viola, go to the common room and wait for me there. I need to speak to your cousin in private.”

  “Second cousin,” Mac said.

  “Bye, Mac.” Henry didn’t dare meet his gaze in case he burst out laughing. He trailed out the door, and then leaned against the hallway wall to listen.

  “Now, I don’t know exactly what was going on here,” Dreama said in a voice that belied that. “But your behavior was highly inappropriate! Viola is a very special young lady, and she might have the same needs and urges as any other young woman, but I won’t allow her to be taken advantage of, do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  Henry wrinkled his nose. He didn’t really want to hear Dreama talk about his sister’s needs and urges. He knew all about them. Years ago, when he’d tried to look after her himself, he’d caught her inviting a man back to their apartment. Some slimy neighbor whose idea of talking dirty was to tell her exactly how hard he’d pound her and pull her hair. And Viola had smiled and nodded as though he was offering her a day at the park instead of rough sex.

  “Why can’t I, Sebby?” she’d screamed at Henry after he threw the guy out. “Why can’t I?”

  Because your brain hasn’t caught up with your biology, Vi. Because it never will.

  “Viola can’t make an informed decision in regards to . . . to matters of the heart,” Dreama said now.

  Henry hated the euphemism almost as much as he hated the alternative.

  “Her hair was caught in her bra strap,” Mac lied, his voice even. “That’s all that happened. She’s my cousin.”

  Second cousin, Henry thought with a slight smile. And Mac really was gay if he’d never had enough experience with bras to know that getting your hair caught in them was a near impossibility. He’d also obviously never hung around many girl friends or drag queens either. Still, Henry admired the way he delivered the lie.

  “I’ll speak to Dr. Carlisle about this.” Dreama gave a little huff. “You’ll need to talk to him before you come and visit again, young man. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.”

  No. Henry was pretty sure she was born when dinosaurs ruled the planet.

  “That’s fine,” Mac said. “And I will be back to visit Viola. Tomorrow. So Dr. Carlisle had better make the time to see me.”

  He stormed out of Viola’s room, almost colliding with Henry.

  “My hero,” Henry whispered, blowing him a kiss and hurrying down the hall toward the common room before Dreama saw him.

  Mac was coming back tomorrow.

  Mac might not believe him, but he was coming back tomorrow.

  And if that didn’t earn him the gift of the macaroni necklace Henry was making in craft class, he didn’t know what did.

  “McGuinness,” Mac said into his phone as he drove back to the city. He was still smarting over being treated like a pervert by a woman in a Pooh sweatshirt.

  “Mac, it’s Penny.”

  “What’s up?” Mac overtook a minivan that was going two miles under the speed limit. Why was the world full of irritating assholes today? And why was Henry Page their king?

  “Val wants to know where you are.”

  “Did you tell her I’m on lunch?”

  “Yes. She wants to know why you’ve been on lunch for almost two hours when you’re supposed to be on sick leave.”

  “You phoned to tell me that?” Val knew the score. He was on sick leave because he wanted to get all his ducks in a row before he dealt with OPR. It certainly didn’t mean he was going to stay home, lie on his couch, and watch daytime TV. Not when there was work to be done.

  “No, I phoned to tell you that we’ve got an ID on John Doe,” Penny said.

  Mac felt a buzz of anticipation. He gripped his phone tighter. “Who is he?”

  “Lonny Harris.”

  Mac gave it a moment, but no. Nothing. “I have no idea who that is.”

  “No,” Penny agreed. “Me neither.”

  Barbara Eiling, the previous administrator for St. Albinus, now managed an assisted-living facility in Topeka. Mac called her and asked flat-out why she’d left St. Albinus.

  “Well, the church sold it,” she told him. “They’ve kept the name, but it’s now owned by one of those corporations that puts profits before people.”

  “Is that why you left?” He checked his watch. He had about twenty minutes before he was due to meet Penny in the parking lot so they could go and check out where Lonny Harris’s body had been found. Penny was currently getting information sent over from the police, and Mac couldn’t help but think that would have been a better use of his time than this. But he’d promised Henry he would make some calls.

  “I had . . .” Barbara paused while she searched for the right word. “I had issues with some of the new board’s policies. They started by dropping the wages of the staff, and then told us to save money by reusing paper cups.”

  “Paper cups?” Mac was confused.

  “It’s the principle of the thing,” she told him. “Once they start citing paper cups as a way to cut the budget, you know it’s going to get a hell of a lot worse. And sooner or later, usually sooner, there is a decline in patient care. I’ve been there before, and I didn’t want to watch it happen again. To be perfectly honest, I jumped before I was pushed. I refused to take a pay cut as well.”

  Mac brought up the St. Albinus website on his computer. It looked so pretty in the pictures. Residents walked in the gardens, and smiled for the cameras . . . Meanwhile someone was counting up how many paper cups they used.

  “But I don’t think you called me to talk about paper cups.”

  “I’m actually looking into the recent death of one of the patients,” he said. “It’s just routine.”

  “Oh, which one?”

  “Mr. Crowley.”

  She surprised him with a laugh. “Oh God, I’m sorry. It’s just I figured he’d live forever. He was a real curmudgeon. I thought he’d be around to torment his caretakers for years yet.”

  “He died of renal failure,”

  “He had chronic kidney disease,” Barbara said. “Still, he was only in stage one when I left a few months ago. It must have progressed very quickly.”

  Mac was silent for a moment. Maybe Henry’s ideas weren’t all crazy. Apart from the one about dressing as his twin sister, of course. That was soap opera shit. Pretty soon the villain everyone thought was dead would reappear in a dramatic thunderstorm.

  He shook his head and refused to think of Jimmy Rasnick rising from the grave.

  “Oh.” Barbara breathed out slowly. “Routine? No, you think this is an Angel of Death situation.”

  “It’s just routine. I really can’t tell you any more than that. I also wanted to ask about another of your former patients, Viola Hanes.”

  “Viola? Is she okay?”

  “She’s fine,” Mac said. “She was close with Mr. Crowley?”

  “They were like two peas in a pod. It was crazy, really. This terrible, cranky old man, and this girl with the mental age of an eight-year-old. And both of them could throw tantrums like you wouldn’t believe, but they got on so well together.”

  “Who pays for Viola’s care?”

  “Her brother,” Bar
bara said. “Sebastian.”

  “And what does he do for a living?” Mac was curious as to what Henry had told them.

  “I . . . I never actually asked.”

  Mac smiled at her hesitation. She might not have asked, but she suspected something was wrong.

  “Look,” Barbara said, “Vi didn’t have insurance. She didn’t have some big compensation payout for her injury either. But the money was there, every month.”

  “And how much money was it?”

  “Five thousand three hundred per month.”

  “Shit. Pretty sure she could rent an apartment in New York for that amount.”

  “No. Not Viola. She needs around-the-clock care. She has both medical and behavioral issues. She’s a sweet girl, but she can’t be on her own. I know her brother tried to look after her at first, but he couldn’t. I don’t know which one of them was more heartbroken when she was admitted with us.”

  “Is that why you didn’t ask where the money came from?”

  “She needed us.” Barbara’s voice was soft. “And so did he.”

  “How long has she been there?”

  “Seven years.”

  He tried to imagine that. Tried to imagine Henry—Sebastian—at eighteen. Tried to imagine a kid of that age struggling to look after his sister on his own. And tried to imagine exactly how far he’d go to earn over five grand a month.

  Except he didn’t need to imagine, did he? He knew what Henry was. A criminal.

  A criminal who carried all his earthly possessions in a plastic bag because every cent he made went to Viola.

  “Thanks for your help,” he told Barbara, and ended the call.

  He glanced at his watch again. Shit, he didn’t have time to look into Dr. Seth Carlisle and the new management of St. Albinus right now. But he could absolutely delegate it.

  Mac headed outside to look for Dennis.

  And ran into Janice Bixler.

  “Hello, Viola,” Dr. Seth Carlisle said with a smile. He peered at Henry over his glasses. “Now, you and I need to have a little chat. Is that okay?”

  Patronizing fuck.