Stealing the Moon & Stars Read online

  “Really, Jordan. It’s so embarrassing when you do this.” Mary lifted her chin. “You might as well be cleaning their toilets.” She turned to her husband. “What will people think?”

  “Now, Mary. She’s not cleaning their toilets.” Ben’s tone attested to many decades’ experience at placating his wife. “Are you, Jordan?” Ben smiled at his youngest.

  Jordan met her father’s eyes and he winked. “You two are just alike,” he said.

  Two? “What two?” Jordan asked.

  “Why, you and your mother, Jordie. Peas in a pod.”

  What? No. That’s not right. Is it? That can’t be right. Oh my God! Just shoot me now.

  Mary didn’t seem to have heard her husband’s remark. “Don’t ‘now, Mary’ me. Connie’s family is descended from British royalty. Her great-grandfather was a distant heir to the throne who came here because of his asthma.”

  “Royalty. You don’t say.” Dave seemed fascinated with Mary’s story.

  It was as if he wasn’t even in the room. Mary went on, not bothering to glance in his direction, “Did she tell you that when they hired you to dance at their beck and call? Well, did she?”

  Jordan’s options lay before her, a Y in the road. She chose the high ground and laid her hand on Mary’s. “No, Mother. She didn’t say anything about it, and she wasn’t wearing her crown at the time.” She smiled and lifted the gravy pitcher. “More sauce?”

  After her family left, Jordan returned to her easel. The morning light was obviously gone, so she switched on her warm fluoros and let the brush and canvas relax her, stroke by stroke.

  Would Dave Clark survive his first outing with the Welsh clan, or would he tuck his tail between his legs and skedaddle? Trial by fire if ever there was one. She hoped he’d stick around. He and Katie were a perfect match.

  Her cellphone chimed, “Smooth Operator” ringtone. Eddie. “Hello.” It was still early in the evening. Had there been a break in the case?

  “Jordan, we have an appointment with Anthony Vercelli tonight. I’ll send one of the boys to pick you up.”

  “That won’t be necessary. Just tell me where and when.”

  “Must you always put up a fight?” He sighed.

  “I call it being independent.”

  “I call it being a pain in my ass.”

  Nice ass, too, Mr. Marino.

  CHAPTER 24

  Jordan didn’t know the dress code for an interview with a mobster, so she took a tip from The Eddie Marino Fashion Guide for Interrogating Unsavory Characters. He always wore a black leather jacket, black T-shirt, and black pants. That was what she went with too. Her outfit was different in that the jacket was black silk shantung, the T-shirt a skintight cami with lace edging, and the pants black skinny jeans. His boots were generally biker style. Jordan went with tall riding boots. Even when confronting a criminal, a girl should look sleek and dangerous. Make that especially when confronting a criminal.

  She pulled into the curving driveway of Anthony Vercelli’s North Scottsdale two-story Tuscan-style mansion and parked under the portico beside Eddie’s truck. The estate was only a couple of miles farther north than the winter home her parents owned in Troon. In Scottsdale, the identity of one’s neighbors could be a revelation. She got out of the car and tackled the cobblestone pathway to where Eddie waited by the front door, nearly twisting her ankle at least three times. Side by side with Eddie, she stepped up to the door. They stood quietly a moment in the dim light, looking into each other’s eyes.

  “You ready for this?” He seemed jittery, which didn’t bode well. She couldn’t remember ever seeing evidence of Eddie’s nerves until now.

  It made her jumpy too. “I thought I was. Now I’m not so sure.”

  He rang the bell beside the double rough-hewn antique doors, which might once have been the portals to a centuries old church somewhere in the Italian countryside.

  After a moment, one of the doors opened. A man stood just inside, still holding the heavy door handle, his body blocking their way.

  He eyed Jordan top to bottom then shifted his appraising stare to Eddie. “Marino.”

  “Hello, LaSalle.”

  “Long time no see. Can’t say I missed you.” Utter dislike.

  “Aw, come on. You know you’ve been pining away for me.”

  The man Eddie called LaSalle didn’t seem amused. “See you still have that smart mouth.”

  “Why, thank you, Tony.” Eddie’s arm encircled Jordan’s waist. Somehow it boosted her confidence and sense of security. “Jordan Welsh, this is Tony LaSalle, an associate of Mr. Vercelli.”

  She nodded. LaSalle looked at her. One side of his mouth turned up and he winked, slow and deliberate. It was a little unsettling. Nothing flirty about it. LaSalle’s build was average, not big or muscular, but he exuded threat in the way he stood, the way his body seemed ready to uncoil and strike like a rattler. His hooded eyes were unreadable beneath dark, heavy brows. If his hair wasn’t so long and unkempt, his face clean-shaven and his expression less menacing, he would have been a handsome man. As it was, Jordan was surprised the thought even crossed her mind. The man was a menace on two legs. No one had to tell her that. She could see it with her own two eyes.

  He led them from the enormous circular foyer off to the right, along a hall lined with what Jordan deemed original art. He stopped at the halfway point.

  Double doors opened onto a library suitable for Buckingham Palace. Paneled in mahogany, its shelves were replete with hundreds of books lining three walls. An elaborate Persian rug was laid over polished travertine. The fourteen-foot tray ceiling was paneled with carved wood. A granite and stone fireplace under a sleek flat panel television dominated the fourth wall. The room gave off mixed aromas of books, leather, expensive tobacco, and lemon oil polish.

  An amazing half-circle mahogany desk stood on one side of the room. In front of the fireplace sat two high-backed leather chairs. The desk, Jordan was pretty sure, dated back to the 1890s or the turn of the century.

  While Jordan wasn’t sure what she had expected from the home of a notorious crime figure, it wasn’t this. This place was kin to the environment Jordan grew up in, antiques and opulence—not exactly her bag, but her mother would have had a field day.

  “Mr. Vercelli, Marino’s here.” LaSalle stood aside. With a smirk and one last speculative look at Jordan, he walked back the way they came.

  Behind the desk sat a man who looked to be in his early to mid-fifties. His hair was silver and immaculately styled, a three hundred dollar haircut if she’d ever seen one. He stood and came around the desk, embracing Eddie.

  Eddie tensed up.

  “Mr. Vercelli.” Eddie’s voice was quiet, maybe even respectful. “This is Jordan Welsh. She’s my partner in an investigation firm we—”

  “I know who this young lady is.” Vercelli smiled, took Jordan’s hand and kissed it. “Lovely. How do you do, Miss Welsh?”

  Jordan’s eyes met Eddie’s then went back to Vercelli. A charmer, eh? If she didn’t know who and what he was, she’d be almost completely disarmed. Almost. If she considered LaSalle menacing, something about Vercelli’s benign demeanor, coupled with her foreknowledge of him, made him downright terrifying.

  His face was tanned, his skin smooth, his body golf-course fit. He wore expensive resort-style clothes, and in truth, looked more like someone on the PGA Tour than a known criminal, except for his eyes—black pearls, intense, penetrating. They probably didn’t miss much, if anything. His gaze stripped away her emotional armor.

  In the last two days she’d done her homework and already developed a healthy hatred of Anthony Vercelli. His arsenal of big gun lawyers got him off the hook for mob-related crimes time after time, using this minor technicality or that fine point of law. Vercelli was powerful and wealthy, but he was little more than a common thug as far as Jordan was concerned, especially since it was looking more and more as though he was behind the drain in the bank account of the foundation.
/>   As he went back to his chair behind the desk, he indicated the armchairs. “Please. Sit.”

  “No thank you, Mr. Vercelli. We’re here on business.”

  Vercelli sighed. “I thought as much. Eddie, it’s been too many years since you considered me your friend or even came by.”

  Eddie’s voice was low. “You still have my respect, Mr. Vercelli.”

  Jordan didn’t like what she was hearing, didn’t like it at all. Was the man speaking softly to this thug about respect really Eddie Marino, the Eddie Marino who never kowtowed to anyone?

  She took over the conversation. “Mr. Vercelli?”

  From the look he gave her, he might be a shark sizing up lunch. “Yes, Miss Welsh?”

  “Money is missing from the Moon and Stars Children’s Cancer Foundation. A lot of money, money earmarked to help sick kids.”

  “A real shame. I read about it in the paper.” His expression gave away nothing, but his gaze shifted to Eddie.

  “What do you know about it?” She pulled his attention back.

  Vercelli shrugged. “Just what I read in the paper.”

  “Nothing more? Really? You do own Cloverton Insurance?”

  He nodded.

  “And Lenncore Systems?”

  “I have no knowledge of such a company.” He frowned and looked at Eddie. “You don’t really think I’d steal money from a children’s charity?”

  Eddie’s facial expression didn’t change, but the relief in his eyes said that if he’d ever believed it, he no longer did. “We have Cloverton connected to it.” He shrugged. Was that an apology? Jordan couldn’t read the subtext between the two men.

  “Hmm.” Vercelli steepled his fingers under his chin. “You know I don’t always have knowledge of the day to day business of all my entities, Edoardo.”

  Jordan was dying to jump in again, but something had changed, something she sensed in Eddie’s demeanor. He had relaxed. She held her tongue.

  “I think Jordan and I might need to talk to Owen Shetland about our case.”

  Vercelli sat still for what seemed a long time. “Owen Shetland?”

  Eddie nodded.

  Vercelli nodded too. “He oversees the club as well as Cloverton. That’s where you’ll find him tonight.”

  They went back out into the hall. Tony LaSalle escorted them to the front of the house and held the door for them. Tension shimmered between Eddie and LaSalle without a word being said.

  Jordan looked back as LaSalle closed the door. He had his cellphone to his ear.

  “Stop.” She turned and put her hand on Eddie’s chest. “What was that?”

  “What was what?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. You never walk on eggshells, not around anyone.”

  His face was shadowed in the dim exterior lighting. “You can’t strong-arm Anthony Vercelli.”

  “No. It was more than that. You were … you were … I don’t know what. Respectful?” It was difficult to think, much less to say. “How can you hold him in esteem, such a …” again the perfect word wouldn’t come to mind, “such a bad man?”

  He shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

  She waited.

  He ran his hand through his hair. “Okay. When I came out of the army, I had nowhere to go. Nowhere. And I had obligations. Vercelli took me in. Because he did, I could take care of my mother, my sister, and Gina. Vercelli even brought me with him when he moved his operation to Arizona. What I owe him does have limitations, which I’ve come up against before. I told you that’s why I left and went out on my own, but I still afford him my respect.”

  It was a lot to digest. She took his hand. “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t expect you to.” He raised their hands to his lips and kissed the back of hers.

  She tried not to sound as disappointed as she was but didn’t think she succeeded. “So you believe him? You don’t think he’s behind the missing funds?”

  “He wouldn’t lie to me. He knows there’s no percentage in it.”

  She frowned. No percentage in it? In what way? Was he saying Vercelli knew Eddie would never go after him, guilty or not? Disturbing. Worse … frightening.

  Eddie led her to her car and opened the door. “We need to go now.”

  “Go?”

  “To the Sunset Gentlemen’s Club. That’s where Owen Shetland will be.” He took out his phone. “I’m calling the crew to meet us there.”

  “Do we need them?”

  “It’s a good idea. Shetland will be expecting us.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “That bastard LaSalle just called him and told him we’re coming.”

  CHAPTER 25

  The sizzling red neon sign at the Sunset Gentlemen’s Club flashed All Nude Girls.

  The place was far enough from the ASU Tempe campus to keep the Board of Regents off their backs but still close enough to draw students. From the look of the parking lot, the gentlemen’s club was busy as hell.

  Jordan parked about a block from the club and walked to the front entrance where Eddie waited, entourage in tow.

  “Hey, guys, it’s good to see you.” Jordan greeted the three men Eddie called his crew. They looked and were as dangerous as their boss.

  For all intents and purposes, the three were employees of the agency. They came with Eddie, a package deal. She didn’t mind. He’d brought them into play on several other cases and Jordan was comfortable working with them.

  All were combat veterans in perfect physical condition. Muggs and Diego were both ex-marines.

  Muggs was as handsome as a Hollywood action star with a solid jaw, smooth complexion and intense, bright blue eyes. His hair was long and layered. He pulled it back in a ponytail when he worked. They called him Muggs, Eddie told her, so he wouldn’t get a big head about his looks. It seemed to have worked. He was down-to-earth and normal for a guy who’d spent most of his life moving from one dangerous job to the next.

  He smiled. “Hi, Jordan.”

  Diego was lithe, agile, and well-muscled. His parents were both naturalized citizens from El Salvador, and he was the pride of the family, an American from his first breath, a scholar, and a soldier. His dark hair curled sweetly around his baby face. He seldom spoke and didn’t now, just gave her a shy smile.

  Tank was short and stocky. His body was rock solid with sturdy arms and legs. Not only was he built like a “tank,” he drove an M1A1 Abrams tank in the army, thus his nickname.

  Tank was a southern boy from Louisiana with charming, genteel manners. “Miss Jordan.” He touched the brim of his cap.

  They bypassed the long waiting line and went straight to the entrance.

  The doorman, a bald Latino, grinned over his goatee as they walked up. He stood at least a full head taller than Eddie. “Eddie Marino. ¿Cómo te va, dude? Long time no see.” He grabbed Eddie’s hand in a solid grip and pulled him into a hug.

  “Looking good, Javier.” Eddie laughed.

  Javier swept one hand across his shaven skull, preening. “You know it, Eddie.”

  “How’s the family?”

  “All good, mang. All good.”

  Eddie nodded his approval. “Here to see Shetland about some serious shit. He here?”

  Javier’s eyes went flat, but the grin hung around. “I saw him come in coupla hours ago.”

  “He your boss?”

  Javier nodded.

  “Am I gonna have a problem, Javi?”

  Javier shrugged. “No sé. Some do, homes. Some do.” He unhooked the rope from its post and stood back.

  Eddie, Jordan, and the crew walked into the Sunset Gentlemen’s Club.

  For a Sunday night, the place was buzzing. Jordan was jittery, partly because she didn’t know what to expect, either from Shetland or Eddie. They walked past the bar. Her stomach clenched. It didn’t help that she was assaulted by the essence she tagged as “eau de strip club,” a heavy mix of beer, fried bar food, and testosterone.


  Eddie leaned close and spoke beside her ear. “Vercelli owns this place. He used to hold court in the back. Now that Shetland’s running it for Vercelli, that’s where he’ll be.”

  She barely understood him over Christina Aguilera’s version of “Lady Marmalade” blasting through the club at full volume.

  Off to one side on an elevated stage that projected out into the middle of the room like an enormous “T,” two buxom women, naked except for G-strings, defied gravity on twin poles in rhythm to the beat. The dancers were graceful and entertaining, strong and athletic, and Jordan wouldn’t have traded places with them for all the Jimmy Choos on the market.

  Enthusiastic men at tables waved money and shouted lewd remarks.

  Jordan, Eddie and their three-man crew moved through the darkened club in force, like the Avengers. No one seemed to care or even notice. All eyes were focused on the gyrations taking place on stage—all eyes except those of several men in strategic positions against the walls. Those men watched them big time.

  At the back of the room, Eddie pulled out a chair at an empty table. Jordan sat. Eddie sat. Muggs, Diego, and Tank did not. They stood back and kept their eyes peeled.

  “Where’s Shetland?” Jordan wanted to get this over with.

  Eddie’s voice was low and even, but his eyes kept moving. “It’s okay. He knows we’re here. He’s just making us wait. It’ll be cool.”

  “Well, Eddie Marino, as I live and breathe.” A long-legged cocktail waitress came up behind them and leaned down. She was part-Asian and gorgeous. Her short black leather skirt rode up and her red halter-top drooped down, giving them all a comprehensive view of her assets. “What can I get ya, handsome?”

  “Charlene, how are you? How about Heinekens? Five of them.” He looked at the others. They all nodded agreement.

  “Sure, baby. Coming right up.” She slinked away.

  Baby? She called Eddie baby? Jordan bristled but tried to keep it out of her voice. “Someone from the old days?”

  “Yeah.” He smiled. Fondly? “Sweet kid. She’s trying to put herself through college, work here and raise a little boy, all on her own. Tough gig.”