She hums with suspicion. “So you didn’t put those guys up to chasing me?”

  “What?! Of course not! Why would I do that? I don’t even know those guys.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Rachel. You don’t seriously believe I set you up, right? I mean, that’s absurd. What would be my purpose in doing that?”

  “To stage a situation where you’d have to swoop in and save me,” she says. “Some guys actually do that.”

  “Rachel, I’m not some guys. I would never do that. Only a truly desperate, insecure man who wants to feel needed would operate like that. That’s not me.”

  We pull up to her apartment building. She unbuckles herself and gathers her things.

  “When’s your next shift?” I ask her.

  She slings her purse over her shoulder and looks at me. “Tuesday,” she says dryly.

  “Please call me after you get off work. Okay?”

  But she ignores me and jumps out the car without so much as a goodbye. I don’t think she fully trusts me. That’s okay, though. We’ll get there. In time, she will trust me.

  I at least make sure she makes it inside, then I drive off.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  So far, my morning is going good. I woke up feeling refreshed, and I hope this feeling continues. I’m banking on today being a calm, uneventful, easygoing Sunday. The universe owes me that much. I don’t need any surprises.

  At present, I’m feeling like a cup of coffee, maybe a bowl of oatmeal to go along with it, and a side of toast.

  I go into the kitchen to fetch what I need and then my phone rings. My dog, Chaz, barks from the living room. Please, universe, don’t let this be anyone who can stick a pin in my happiness right now.

  The number on the caller ID is private. A scary thought crosses my mind. What if it’s one of the hoodlums who chased me? What if they somehow got a hold of my number?

  “Hello?” I answer reluctantly.

  “Hi, is this Rachel Benning?” The voice on the other end belongs to a man, older, middle-aged. Not quite what either of the hoodlums sounded like. Thank God.

  “Uh, yes? This is she. Who’s calling?”

  “Miss Benning, this is Detective Elliott with the PPD. I have some questions I’d like to ask you regarding Mike Eisenhower. Are you available within the next hour or so?”

  My heart plunges into my stomach. And just like that, my plea to the universe is denied.

  “Umm . . .” My mind draws a blank. I don’t know what to think of this. What did Mike do, and why am I being pulled into it? I don’t know anything about this man, aside from the fact that he frequents the pharmacy I work at. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to that.

  “Miss Benning, I realize this is short notice,” the detective says. “And I know you’re probably in a state of shock that a detective is calling you on a Sunday morning. But we need some crucial information. I don’t like to put pressure on people, but this is kind of urgent. Can I come and speak with you?”

  “Uh . . .” I knead my forehead in disbelief and confusion. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Great. What time is good for you? And where do you live?”

  “Maybe within the next half hour.”

  “Sure. And your address, ma’am?”

  I’m leery about telling this man where I live. It’s hard to trust anybody after what happened at the bus stop two nights ago.

  “Er—” I hesitate in giving my location. For all I know, this could be a setup to rob me in my own place—or worse.

  “If you don’t trust me, I’d be glad to give you my badge number so you know I’m legit,” he offers. “Happens all the time. I’m not offended, trust me.”

  “No, no, you don’t have to do that, Detective,” I reply. “I live at 5609 Baldwin Street, apartment 203.”

  “Great. I should be there no later than eleven. That okay?”

  “Yup, sounds good.”

  We disconnect and I’m left in a whirlwind of thought. What could he possibly want to talk to me about?

  Half an hour flies by in a blink. There’s a knock at my door. My stomach swarms with butterflies.

  “Miss Benning? It’s Detective Elliott,” a man says on the other side.

  “Coming.” I unlatch the locks slowly and open the door only a crack. “Detective?”

  He peers through the sliver of space. “Yep, it’s me.” He holds up his badge to prove he’s official. He’s by himself, which I’m not sure if it’s a bad thing or not. “May I come in?”

  “Sure.”

  I open the door wider and allow him entry. He’s tall, balding and wears sort of a mean face. Kind of intimidating, which I suppose is necessary for a line of work such as his.

  “Thank you,” he says, unbuttoning his trench coat. “How’s your morning been so far?”

  Just fine until you disrupted it, I want to say.

  “Not too shabby,” I say instead.

  “Good. Well, you know why I’m here.” He cuts straight to brass tax. “Let’s sit and chat.”

  “Sure. You can have a seat in the living room here.” I direct him to the couch. “I was just about to make myself some coffee. Care for some?”

  He put up his hand. “No. Thank you, though,” he says, taking off his coat.

  I sit down across from him, and instantly, my heart drops like a runaway elevator. That sense of dread you feel when you get called to the principal’s office comes over me.

  Detective Elliott laces his fingers together. “So tell me, Rachel. What do you know about Mike Eisenhower?”

  “I know that he drives a Tesla and that he’s got hypertension. Other than that, not much.”

  My remark was meant to be tongue-in-cheek to lighten the mood a little, but I don’t think that registers with the detective. He doesn’t crack a smile.

  “How did you two meet?” he asks me.

  “I work at The Ready Remedy pharmacy. Mike stops by every Wednesday for his meds.”

  “I see. And you sure you know nothing else about this man. His history, what he’s done?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Hmm. So you’re not aware of his alleged connection to the mob?”

  I almost choke on air.

  “What?! No! I had no idea.”

  “And I take it you also aren’t aware that he has henchmen running around trying to steal drugs.”

  Henchmen?! Is that what those hoodlums were who chased me? Were they Mike’s minions, doing his bidding and trying to rob me for drugs because I’m a pharmacy tech? Because if they were, then that would make perfect sense. And it would confirm the fact that, yes, Mike did set me up.

  Things start to click. Mike told me that he’d had his eye on me for a while; code for: I’ve been watching you this entire time; I’ve studied your pattern of behavior; I know when you get off work; I’m going to use this to my advantage.

  My paranoia sets in again. Was that why he was so insistent on taking me home? Because he secretly wanted to get to next to me, so he could get closer to the drugs?

  “I know this is probably a lot to process, Rachel,” Elliott says. “I won’t badger you anymore. You say you don’t know anything outside of Mike’s business in your pharmacy. Fine. We’ll leave it there.”

  He gets up, puts on his coat, then heads for the door.

  “I would advise you, though, Rachel, not to associate with Mike at all,” he says. “The guy’s made of dirty money. Affiliating with him can mean terrible things for you.”

  The detective leaves, and I’m left standing here confused and my mind racing a million miles a minute.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I just got off the phone with a buddy of mine. Well, if I’m being honest, he’s more like a steady acquaintance. The world I’ve been entangled with, the word “buddy” should never be used lightly. Nevertheless, he’s been my eyes and ears for the past few months, keeping tabs on things behind the scenes I’m not privy to. Like the fact that I’m being conspired against.

  They’re watching you, man, he told me. I’m a hundred percent positive five-oh is heavy on your ass right now. How much do you wanna bet they’re gonna start questioning people around you?

  I’d said nothing in response to that. I know it’s probably true. Those words echoed in my head the moment he said them. It triggered my paranoia, something I’ve been trying to suppress for years now. And in just one phone call, it resurfaces.

  I look down at the bustle of downtown Philly from my penthouse window. Anyone down there could be the mole, just blending in with normal society inconspicuously. You can’t trust anyone in this town, or in this world, for that matter.

  My informant clued me in on who the authorities might have reached out to first. And before he even said the name, I already had a hunch.

  Rachel.

  If I’m being watched like he said I am, then I can bet they’ve seen me interact with her on several occasions.

  I give her a call. The phone rings for what feels like hours, but then she picks up.

  “Mike?” she answers.

  “Hey, Rachel. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time. You’re not at work, are you?”

  “No. I actually have the day off. What’s up?”

  I detect a hint of resistance in her voice, like she doesn’t really want to talk to me.

  “I wanted to ask you. Have you gotten a call from the police about me?”

  Silence. She hesitates at first. “Yes. A detective came by yesterday morning and we talked.”

  “What did he say?”

  Rachel gets quiet again.

  “Rachel. What did the man tell you?”

  I can tell she doesn’t want to say it.

  “Listen, whatever you heard about me, it isn’t true,” I say. “I’m not a criminal, and I didn’t set you up. You have to trust me.”

  “I don’t know if I can, Mike,” she says.

  “Rachel, I know it’s difficult to wrap your head around, but I would never do anything to put you in harm’s way. I mean that. There are people out here who really have it out for me and are making up lies to ruin my life—”

  Mid-sentence, I come up with an idea.

  “Are you doing anything right now?” I ask her.

  “No. Why?”

  “Can I come scoop you up for coffee or something, and I can explain all of this?”

  She sighs unwillingly. “Sure, yeah.”

  An hour later . . .

  I take her to the Goldman Coffee Haus which is ten minutes outside the city. I just had to get away from the urban landscape for a minute, to sort of clear my head. A clear head is the only way I’ll be able to relay the truth to her coherently and composedly.

  We order coffees, mine black, hers three creams, five sugars. After a few sips, I build up the nerve and the brainpower to speak.

  “Can you tell me what that detective asked you?”

  She looks at her mug, almost guiltily. “He asked me if I knew that you were associated with the mob,” she says. “I told him I knew nothing about you outside of you coming into the pharmacy to get your weekly fill of pressure pills.”

  “And what else did he mention?”

  “He also said that you had henchmen who ran around and did your dirty work, basically. Getting drugs and stuff.”

  “None of that is true.”

  “So what’s the real story?” she asks. “Where is this coming from?”

  “I wanna set the record straight right here and now that I am not affiliated with the mob. Never have been. That false narrative grew wings because of what almost happened to me. Four years ago, I was approached by a mobster who wanted to make me a made man. Mind you, to my knowledge, I have zero family members on the inside. Most men in the mafia get in because of their family ties. But this guy wanted me in purely for my money.”

  “Speaking of which, the detective said you’re made of dirty money,” she adds. “Whatever that means.”

  I chuckle at the claim. “Dirty money? Seriously? I’m into cryptocurrency. It’s a massive industry. My company hit the ground running back in 2014. One of the largest bitcoin apps in the world. Diginero, it’s called. A play on the words digital dinero. I thought it was clever at the time. And apparently, so did this guy who tried to induct me into Cosa Nostra. I found out that he just wanted to use my money for shady deals and investments. That was the only reason he reached out to me. He’s known on the streets as Barry Facciolo. He’s a notorious crime lord in Philly. But he’s also a fraud. Because his real name is actually Barron Downey, but he likes to masquerade as an Italian Mafioso.”

  “So how did he present it to you? The invitation to be in the mob, I mean.”

  “I was out having dinner with some colleagues one night when he just walked up to me in the restaurant, slid me a card with his number on it, and told me to call him. I’m thinking maybe this guy wants to cut a deal with me, buy me out, whatever. I get that all the time. But no. He wanted to recruit me for the mafia. Of course, I turned him down. But my refusal came at a cost. Those kinda people don’t let you just walk away peacefully. He told me in no uncertain terms that I’d be constantly watched from that day on. And I also received tons of threats toward my family and anyone around me. I can almost guarantee that those guys who tried to attack you, Rachel, were probably Barry’s cronies. They spied on me, saw me with you, and tried to kidnap you to hold you for collateral until I agreed to share my money. That’s what it all boils down to. They want my money. And they’ll do whatever they can to get to it.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  After Mike explained it to me, everything made much more sense. Did it sound like a plot of a movie? Most definitely. But a guy of his status, something like this isn’t unheard of. And Philly did have a considerable mafia presence. Not as much as New York, but it did exist here. Oh boy, did it ever. I’d heard horror stories before.

  I believe Mike. I can sense the sincerity in his eyes. And I don’t think he would make up such an elaborate story to convince me of his innocence. He just doesn’t seem like the type.

  “I’m sorry if this is all too much to process,” he says. “And I hate that you’ve been dragged into it like this.”

  I stir my coffee. “I appreciate you telling me the truth.”

  “I owe you that much,” he replies. “I couldn’t leave you in the dark about this. No way.”

  “Yeah. Especially being that this is . . . life and death, really.”

  “No. Don’t talk like that. There’ll be no death. Know why? Because I refuse to let anyone hurt you. Or myself, for that matter. We’re gonna be fine.”

  I’m thinking what would Mike do if someone threatened his life or mine? He’s on the bigger side, so I don’t think for a second that he’s afraid to get physical. Or maybe he has some steel reinforcement in his waistband that I don’t know about. Just the idea of him potentially carrying a firearm right now sends shivers down my spine. But if it means protection, then so be it. The mafia is nothing to play with.

  He finishes off his coffee, then leans back in his seat to admire me. My face grows warm.

  “What?” I say, feeling uncomfortable.

  He smiles. Those teeth . . . those dimples. Jesus.

  “I just can’t believe how beautiful you are,” he says. He leans forward and puts his elbows on the table. “I never thought I’d get to spend time with you like this. I mean, this sure beats the hell out of you handing me a bag of pills every Wednesday.”

  We laugh.

  “Under very intense circumstances, but I get your point,” I reply.

  “Well here’s a proposition for you. I know this little rendezvous here was on the strength of something serious. But what do you say we do a real date? How do you feel about dinner tonight?”

  The offer is kind of short notice, but you know what? The devil with false modesty. I take it.

  “I’d love to.”

  “Perfect. Let’s do 7:30.”

  Eight hours later . . .

  Mike decided to take me to the Giorno Prime Chophouse downtown. According to him, only those of the higher echelon dine here. The rich and famous, the movers and shakers, the big wigs. So naturally, I feel special.

  He requested a private room for us near the back of the restaurant. They call it The Madison. The space is beautiful. It has a sparkly, crystal chandelier hanging above the table, red velvet seats, sterling silverware, fancy ceramic dishes. I’ve never been anywhere close to this.

  Mike pulls out my chair for me.

  “You’re such a gentleman,” I tell him.

  He smiles and takes his seat across from me. “So how are you feeling?” he asks.

  “About what?”

  “Just about being out in general,” he says. “I know you were a little nervous about being watched.”

  That is true. I did tell him before we got here that I would be looking over my shoulder. But I’m trying not to look like a cagey, neurotic nutcase.

  I fold my arms and look around me. “I think I should be okay,” I say. But that’s only half-true. I have this nagging feeling that someone is going to emerge from the wings and try to attack us.

  Mike puts his hand on top of mine. He can sense that a part of me still feels on edge.

  “Rachel, listen to me. I promise you I’m not gonna let anything happen to you,” he says. “I want you to trust me. Okay? As long as you’re with me, you’re gonna be fine.”

  His assurance does put me at ease.

  Our waitress, Courtney, approaches the table and takes our orders. I get the olive oil poached salmon and Mike gets the juniper lamb sausage. The service is fast. They bring our food out within half an hour, along with a bottle of very pricey wine.

  “Smells wonderful,” I remark.

  “Their salmon is grand,” Mike says. “You’re gonna love it.”

 

1 2 3 4 5