Lost but not Forgotten
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Gillian whirled. “Her husband? She’s married?”
“Well,” Flo muttered, “a few months ago I heard she’d moved in with her sister again. It’s happened before. The other times she’s gone back to Royce. I dunno, maybe this time she won’t.” Raising her voice, Flo greeted the trio who stood inside the door surveying the dining area. “There’s space at the counter. Or if you wait a minute, Gilly’s about ready to reset a table that was just vacated.”
“Has Christy been here for lunch?” the man in the middle asked. He stripped off his goggles and gloves and tossed them into a helmet he held hooked under one arm.
Shivering at the mere size of him, Gillian ducked past the trio. She wouldn’t want to meet any of them in a back alley, or out in broad daylight for that matter. Let Flo field the man’s query. Better she avoid any personal contact with cops.
“Just missed her, Royce,” Flo noted cheerfully. “Christy left here no more than five…ten minutes ago.”
“Damn.” The big man, who’d followed Gillian to the table, threw his helmet down on one of the chairs. She jumped a foot straight up at the noise.
“Easy does it.” The shorter of the two men with Royce threw an apologetic glance at Gillian. He elaborated for her benefit. “I called the dispatcher myself to see when Royce’s wife was scheduled to go to lunch. If he’s testy, it’s because Christy’s department thinks it’s clever to play mind games with us. Next time she comes in, tell her he only wants to talk. A man has a right to see his own wife, doesn’t he?”
“I guess that depends.” Gillian pulled her order pad out of her pocket. “Coffee or sodas?” Her voice squeaked. Clearing her throat, she asked if the men knew what they wanted to eat, or if they needed a minute to decide. No one responded. She handed them menus and walked away.
“Hey, Royce,” hollered a uniformed cop getting up from a back booth. “Christy and Valetti sat at that same table while she ate. Cozy as two peas in a pod.”
“Mitch Valetti? Come on, Billings, quit lying. You think I don’t know Valetti got his balls shot off and left the force a couple months ago?”
“No kidding? His balls? Well, he was stove up some. But I’m not lying. If you don’t believe me, ask Red there. She was chatting with him when Christy walked in. Valetti dropped Red like a hot potato and made a beeline for Christy.”
Royce pinned Gillian with angry eyes. “Tell me. Is Don having me on or not?”
Gillian slopped coffee onto the clean table from a pot she’d gone to fetch while the men talked. “I believe, ah, they were discussing business. Are you three ready to order yet?” she asked, nervously sponging away the spill.
“Like hell they were discussing business,” Royce roared, slamming a hamlike fist down on the table. “If Valetti didn’t lose his balls in that shoot-out, he will when I finish with him. Come on, Jeff. Chico. Let’s ride out to Valetti’s place and show him what’s what. I always said he was too free with his pretty-boy smiles.”
The other two men each grabbed one of Royce’s massive arms. “Mitch lives in the county, dude. We don’t have jurisdiction there. You want his balls, you’ll have to wait till the next time he comes to town. Settle down, Royce. Tell the lady what you want to eat.”
Gillian noticed Bert had left the kitchen to stand at the end of the counter. As she scribbled the men’s orders on her pad, she saw him replace the telephone receiver. The notion that he’d been about to call the cops struck her as funny, since at least a dozen from the nearby station sat in the caf'e. Or were they off duty during lunch? She didn’t know that much about how police operated.
A new thought replaced the previous one. Perhaps Bert had intended to notify Valetti. For no reason at all, Gillian felt a stab of sympathy for the injured ex-cop. She hoped he had enough sense to stay put on his ranch. Though whatever happened wouldn’t have anything to do with her. Sheesh. She had troubles of her own. Perhaps that was why she empathized. It was a frightening experience to have brutish men wanting to hurt you.
Except…when push came to shove, how did she know he wasn’t deserving of Royce’s accusations? After all, Mitch had certainly come on to her. Somehow, though, she believed Mitch was blameless. Gillian found herself wondering about him off and on the remainder of the afternoon. Had he really lost his reproductive organs in a senseless shooting? He certainly came across as virile. But she knew men went to great lengths to hide their weaknesses. They hid most of their emotions. As Daryl had when they’d lost Katie.
He gave her no hint that he’d suffered, too. Not until he’d packed the quilt and baby dress she’d sewn, along with Katie’s urn, that night he’d arrived at her apartment. If only he hadn’t waited so long to show some understanding. Maybe they could have talked out their problems. Maybe their marriage wouldn’t have disintegrated.
Gillian dropped a set of silverware she was rolling into napkins to get ready for the dinner crowd. Her fingers shook when she bent to retrieve the utensils for rewashing. Odd that only now did she remember certain details about that night. Portions of the scene flooded back. There’d been urgency in Daryl’s voice and, she thought, a plea for forgiveness. His hands weren’t steady as he packed the smallest case. Yet he’d grown cross when she couldn’t seem to emerge from her mental fog. The sleeping pills left her confused and only half-awake.
Oh, how she wished she could recall every word Daryl had uttered that night. Eventually he’d recognized he wasn’t getting through to her. He’d thrown up his hands and instead of continuing to explain, he wrote down instructions telling her the location of a hidden car.
If he hadn’t stormed out then with the cases and gone straight to place them in the trunk of the hidden vehicle, she wouldn’t have a stitch to her name. Scarcely two hours later, one of his next-door neighbors had phoned to say he was dead. Without the written instructions, she might not have run. It wasn’t hard to imagine how she’d have ended up then.
Another memory appeared. Gillian realized she hadn’t destroyed Daryl’s message. No wonder the thugs were on her trail so fast. She’d left them an engraved invitation. The note gave the location, color, model and make of her getaway car.
Daryl had finally demonstrated that he did care about the baby they’d lost, and Gillian had failed him. Or felt she had. She hadn’t asked the right questions, and worse, she’d lost all that was dear. Tonight, after work, no matter how tired she was, she would search that lane. The worst of the devil’s disciples. That was how she thought of the men who’d killed Daryl and Pat Malone. Surely not even they would be so heartless as to destroy the contents of that suitcase. Those men only wanted a key, and there was no key. Of that Gillian was sure. So what in heaven’s name had Daryl—meticulous, methodical Daryl—done with the blasted thing?