Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine. Vol. 129, No. 1. Whole No. 785, January 2007

Stone Cold Christmas by Doug Allyn

Doug Allyn has written mainly series stories for EQMM over the past several years. This time out he introduces an entirely new set of characters, and a plot complete with financial shenanigans, an investigation of union politics by the F.B.I., and a family’s complicated loyalties. He’s EQMM’s all-time Readers Award favorite: Since 1992, eight of this stories have taken first place.

The limousine looked half a block long. A GM Hummer, an army assault vehicle with its sheet metal stretched to limo length. Coal-mine black with opaque windows. Bulletproof. Crude as a coffin on wheels and totally out of place rolling silently down a street where working-class folks drove pickups or econo-cars.

As the limo eased to the curb, two bodyguards scrambled out. Big men, one white, one black. Both burly, in leather car coats. No weapons showing, but they kept their hands in their pockets as they scanned the streets for trouble.

They didn’t spot any. The neighborhood looked cordial as a Christmas card, Norman Rockwell-style. Two-story suburban saltboxes decked out in their holiday best, evergreen wreaths on front doors, colored lights winking in the windows, plastic snowmen smiling on frosty lawns.

Sean crouched in the shadow of the shrouded porch swing until the two goons were satisfied the street was clear. Then one nodded to the driver, the limo’s rear door popped open, and Iron Mike O’Donnell climbed out. Looked as rough as his reputation. Two hundred forty pounds of beef on a six-foot frame. Played center on the Northridge high-school football team, a long time back.

Twenty years older now, forty pounds heavier, Iron Mike looked like what he was, union boss of the Refuse Haulers Local 106, a radical splinter of the Teamsters. “The most dangerous labor leader since Jimmy Hoffa,” according to Newsweek.

Surprise was his best chance, so Sean kept utterly still, waiting for Iron Mike to cross the sidewalk. As the boss’s brogan touched the first step, Sean launched.

Charging out of the shadows, he vaulted the porch railing, tackling Mike chest-high, wrestling him to the ground, the two men sprawling on the lawn as they scuffled for an advantage.

For a frozen instant the bodyguards were too stunned to react, then they seized Sean, pulling him off, pinning his arms so Iron Mike could work him over.

“You moron!” Mike said, dusting himself off. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“Just wondering if you’re as tough as your press releases claim.”

“Too tough for you. You still tackle like a girl,” Mike snorted, tousling the younger man’s hair, wrapping him in a bear hug as the bodyguards exchanged puzzled glances. “It’s okay, guys, it’s just my half-wit brother. Been awhile, Sean.”

“Not long enough. Once a year under the same roof is all my career can handle.”

“Career,” Mike snorted. “Sean’s a banker, guys. A freakin’ capitalist lackey.”

“Guilty as charged,” Sean admitted. “How was jail?”

“Lousy. Is that real food I smell? What’s Mom cookin’?”

“Everything.” Sean grinned. “Every damn thing you ever heard of. Welcome home.”

Arms over each other’s shoulders, the brothers led the way into the house, where their tiny silver-haired mom, in her flowered apron, with a dab of flour on the tip of her nose, greeted Mike with squeals of delight. Even their chocolate Labrador barked a hello before returning to his corner of the kitchen, patiently hoping for a handout.

After hugging her boys hello and welcoming Mike’s bodyguards, Mrs. O’Donnell shooed the men into the dining room to the long oaken table beneath a wagon-wheel chandelier.

Iron Mike served up mugs of Irish coffee all around, then took his seat at the head of the table. And relaxed just a little. Home and free. At last.

“So, what’s new, little brother?”

“You are,” Sean said. “All over TV and the national press. That article in Newsweek said you were a Communist. I didn’t even know you could spell Communist.”

“I can’t. I hire computer nerds like you to spell it.”

“But what’s the point?” Sean pressed. “Communism flopped twenty years ago, or hadn’t you heard?”

“I know.” Mike grinned. “Know what being a Commie amounts to these days?”

Sean shook his head.

“That’s the beauty of it, laddie. Neither does anyone else. But it sounds dangerous, and in my business, making businessmen nervous is our stock in trade.”

“So you’re not really a Commie? Just a labor thug?”

“And you’re a capitalist pig.”

“Enough name-calling, boys,” Mother Meg yelled from the kitchen. “No more politics at my table, I declare a truce for the holidays. Do you hear?”

“Yes, Ma,” the brothers answered together.

“Are you two brothers, really?” Joe Briggs, the black bodyguard, asked, leaning back in his chair. “You don’t even look alike.”

True. Barrel-chested with a bullet head, Iron Mike was Black Irish, dark eyes, darker outlook. Sean was as tall as his brother but slender as a whip, fair-haired, with his mother’s green eyes. Dressed preppie: fashionably faded jeans, button-down Pendleton shirt, deck shoes, no socks.

“Different fathers,” Mike explained. “My dad was killed on the road when I was six. His eighteen-wheeler hit a train. After he’d been driving forty hours straight. And people wonder why I’m a Commie.”

“My dad met Ma at a USO dance,” Sean offered. “A soldier. Bought it in Vietnam.”

“Actually, they’re both adopted,” their mother said, delivering steaming bowls of bean soup to the table. “Bought one from a circus, the other belongs to the milkman. I can never remember which.”

“We never had a milkman, Ma,” Mike said.

“The plumber, then,” she said. “I’ve got corned-beef sandwiches coming, boys, but save some space for dessert. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

“Nothing for me, Ma,” Sean said, rising. “I’ll take Bowser for a run before dinner. If my girlfriend calls, tell her I’ll be back in an hour. And for God’s sake don’t let these knuckleheads talk to her.”

“You invited a girlfriend for Christmas?” Mike said, surprised. “That’s a first. Anything serious?”

“Might be,” Sean said. “Assuming she doesn’t run for her life as soon as she sees you and your goons.”

“Does she play poker?”

“No, but her brother does. He’s coming, too.”

“Doesn’t trust you two alone, huh?” Mike eyed his brother. “Don’t blame him. Do I know these people?”

“No, they’re business acquaintances,” Sean said quickly, lacing up his running shoes and grabbing a jacket off the hook. “Back in a bit. Come on, Bowser.”

The big black Lab bounded up and beat Sean out the door.

“What’s little brother’s new girl like, Mom?” Mike asked.

“I haven’t met her yet, but I’m sure she’s very nice.”

“Yeah,” he said thoughtfully. “If he’s bringing her for Christmas, she must be.”

Outside, Sean set a steady pace, enjoying the nip of the winter wind, jogging down the sidewalk as the afternoon faded and the streetlights winked on. Bowser covered twice as much ground, charging happily over lawns, pausing to water every tree, racing to catch up.

At the end of the block, Sean looked around, then veered into the city park, slowing to a walk as he spotted the car parked near the water fountains. A man and a woman climbed out, both tall, with short hairstyles. It looked better on her. She had strong Mediterranean features, handsome rather than pretty, dark eyes and deep auburn hair. Natural, not dyed.

“Agent Vanston.” Sean nodded at the man. “And I take it Stretch here is supposed to pass as my lady friend?”

“I’m Agent Gia Sirico, Mr. O’Donnell,” the woman said. No one offered to shake hands.

“No offense, Red, but you’re not my type. I usually date petite blondes and my brother knows that.”

Sirico shrugged. “For this weekend, your taste runs to Italian redheads. Unless you’d rather spend the next ten years in a cell. That’s the fall for embezzlement, Mr. O’Donnell. Ten hard years.”

“Call me Sean. You’re supposed to be my girlfriend.”

“Okay, Sean. Call me Gia, not Red. The only reds we care about are in Haulers Local 106.”

“I don’t like the goons in Mike’s union, either. Which is the only reason I’m doing this. I didn’t embezzle a dime. There must be a computer malfunction at the bank.”

“No doubt,” Vanston snorted. “But at the moment, your accounts are short half a mile, O’Donnell. So what will it be? A little cooperation or Christmas in jail?”

“I said I’d help you and I will. Just don’t expect me to like it. What do I do?”

“Keep it simple,” Vanston said briskly. “You introduce Gia and me as your girlfriend and her brother, Gia and Carl Moscone, and you help us to blend in.”

“It may not work. My brother’s no fool.”

“You’d better make it work, sport. If Red Mike doesn’t buy your act we’ll bust you on the spot and haul you out in cuffs.”

“You mean you’ll try.”

“Is that a threat?” Gia asked.

“More like a promise. Because if my half-brother guesses I’m selling him out, jail’s the least of my worries. I won’t get out of there alive. And neither will you.”

By the time Sean and Bowser got back, the street was already lined with cars. Uncles, aunts, in-laws, cousins, and neighbors. Hardworking Irish-Americans coming to celebrate the holiday with their nearest and dearest and to welcome their notorious kinsman home from the lockup.

While Iron Mike basked in their affection and good wishes, Mother Meg kept the dining room table piled with finger food and sandwiches. Occasionally a man would take Mike aside for a quiet discussion — a job for a relative, a beef with a boss. No promises asked or given, but the problem was noted and a debt was incurred.

No one mentioned the labor racketeering charges Mike had been jailed for. No need. Most of the men were hard-core union. A few were old enough to remember the lead-pipe-and-dynamite days when Walter Reuther was beaten half to death by company thugs on the Miller Road overpass and old Henry Ford mounted a machine gun on his factory roof.

Bottom line, they were Irish. And knew a bit about men being imprisoned for their politics. And right or wrong, Commie or no, Iron Mike was family.

Amid the din of a dozen conversations and laughter, no one noticed the buzzer but Sean. He hurried to the door just as his mom opened it. To the FBI.

“Good evenin’, welcome, and Merry Christmas to you both,” Mother Meg said, ushering them in. “You must be—”

“Gia, the love of my life,” Sean said, sweeping the startled agent into his arms and kissing her soundly on the mouth. And holding it as their eyes met. Hers flashed, but she held the kiss as long as he did, and gave him an extra hug when it was over.

“A girl that blushes.” Mother Meg grinned. “Didn’t think there were any left, let alone that Sean could find one. And you’d be the brother?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Vanston nodded, shaking her hand. “Carl Moscone. Call me Carl, call me Carlo, just don’t call me late for dinner.”

“Well, if you’ve brought an appetite you’re at the right place, Carl. We’ve enough tucker here to feed an army.”

“Or a Red Brigade,” Sean said blandly. “Come on in, kids, meet the gang.” He ushered the agents through the crowded living room, making introductions all the way. Ending up at the dining-room doorway where Mike was leaning against the door.

“Gia and Carl Moscone, this is my famous outlaw brother, Iron Michael O’Donnell.”

“Welcome and Merry Christmas,” Mike said, shaking hands with both of them. “Wow. Another rangy, redheaded beauty. Can’t imagine how my brother finds them.”

“I thought he preferred blondes,” Gia said.

“Did Sean tell you that? If nobody’s warned you yet, miss, you’d better beware of my little brother. Beneath that button-down banker’s disguise, Sean’s more mischief than all my rowdies put together.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Gia said. “Sean claims you’re an evil mastermind.”

“See, there he goes, fibbin’ again. I’m just a humble labor negotiator, miss. And what is it you do?”

“Nothing very interesting, Mr. O’Donnell. I write advertising.”

“A pity you’re not in management. I wouldn’t mind negotiating a deal with you myself.”

“Hey, do you mind?” Sean chimed in. “This woman’s going to bear my children.”

“Just what the world needs, more skinflint bankers,” his brother shot back. “And you, Carl? Mike said you play a little poker. We’ll be puttin’ a little game together later. Care to join us?”

“Love to.” Vanston smiled. “Hope you don’t mind losing your allowance.”

“A bold talker with a beautiful sister.” Mike grinned, wrapping an arm around the agent’s shoulder. “This’ll be a holiday to remember. Come on, Carl, let me find you a drink.” Mike led him off through the crowd to the kitchen.

“Well,” Gia said, taking a deep breath, glancing around to be sure they weren’t overheard. “That went well. You think he suspects anything?”

“Why should he?” Sean shrugged. “He’s an honest man.”

“He’s a Communist thug.”

“Who doesn’t pretend to be anything else. Which is more than I can say for either of us.”

“Cool it, O’Donnell, we’re not the bad guys here. I’m doing my job and you’re saving your ass. If your brother’s not guilty of anything, he has nothing to worry about. And by the way, don’t go overboard with the kissing thing.”

“Gee, Red, we’re supposed to be in love and the Irish are an affectionate race. So are the Italians, come to think of it.”

“We also have a pretty good gag reflex.”

“Really? Then how do you explain eels in clam sauce?”

“Ah, there you are, you two.” Mama Meg came bustling up. “Gia, you and your brother are staying over, I hope.”

“I’m sure they have other plans, Ma—” Sean began.

“Not at all,” Gia interrupted. “We’d be delighted, Mrs. O’Donnell.”

“Wonderful. Lord knows I’ve waited long enough for Sean to bring a girl home, but I must say it was worth the wait. What’s your favorite pie, dear?”

“My fav—? Lemon meringue, but—”

“You don’t say! Mine too! I know a wonderful recipe. Let’s hope none of these lunkheads like it so we can eat it up ourselves.”

“Please, Mrs. O’Donnell, don’t go to any trouble—”

“No trouble at all, dear. I love to cook, though you’d never know from this skinny rail I’ve raised. Will you two be sharing Sean’s old room, then?”

Gia opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again, looking to Sean for help. Didn’t get any; he was all wide-eyed innocence.

“A girl that blushes,” Meg repeated, shaking her head. “Who’d have thought? Never you mind, dear, we’ll find you a bedroom of your own. The boys’ll be playin’ cards most of the night anyway.”

“Thank you,” Gia said, flashing a death-ray glare at Sean.

“Not a bit of it. You’d best keep this one, Sean, I like an old-fashioned girl. By the way, did you get the chance to look over that reverse mortgage I sent you?”

“Not yet, Ma. Things have been a bit... hectic at the bank,” he said, returning Gia’s glare. “I’ll get to it first thing after the holidays, promise.”

“All right, but one of the dates on it is in January, so—”

“Relax, Ma, I’ve got it covered. No more business. It’s Christmas.”

“You’re right.” Meg beamed, bustling back to the kitchen.

“If you look after your own accounts the way you see to your mom’s, no wonder you’re short a half million,” Gia said.

“I’m not short, the computer is. And leave my mom’s business out of this, okay? I thought you were here to—” He broke off, realizing their raised voices were attracting attention. “Maybe we’d better go for a walk. I’ll show you the old neighborhood.”

“Poker game’s starting, Sean,” Mike said, carrying beers back from the kitchen. “You want in?”

“Bankers can’t gamble, bad for our image. Watch yourself with my brother, Carl. He’s a crook.”

In the street, Sean put his arm around Gia’s shoulders. She tried to pull free but he pulled her closer.

“That Hummer limo parked down the street is Mike’s,” he murmured in her ear. “His driver’s at the wheel, watching the street and watching us. Better make it look good.”

“You were supposed to help me fit in. What are we doing out here?”

“Strolling arm in arm, like the lovebirds we’re supposed to be. In case you hadn’t noticed, the poker game isn’t co-ed. If you hang around asking questions, it’ll only draw attention to the fact you’re a stranger. Carl’s in the game and Mike’s half in the bag. If there’s anything to get, your guy’s in the right place.”

“While we do what?”

“We could neck under a streetlight, you know, to make it look realistic.”

“I’d rather walk, thank you. Where to?”

“Around the block, I guess. It’s a nice neighborhood, I grew up here. Rode my bike to school, played touch football on weekends.”

“And college ball at Michigan State.”

He glanced at her. “You’ve done your homework.”

“To be honest, you’re a bit of a puzzle to me, Mr. O’Donnell. You and your brother, both. Your mom seems like a good person—”

“The best. Salt of the earth.”

“And you grew up in a nice home, apparently didn’t lack for much—”

“Except for a father. Neither of us had one for long.”

“Lots of boys grow up without fathers these days. They don’t all become labor racketeers...”

“Or crooked bankers,” he finished for her.

“Exactly. Maybe you could explain that to me.”

“Are you asking me to incriminate myself?”

“Your bank’s computers have already done that. It’s open-and-shut. The only thing that’ll save you now is your cooperation... What are you staring at?”

“You. Mom’s right. With that snow in your hair, you’re really very lovely.”

“Save the snow job, O’Donnell. It won’t keep me from hauling you out of your mom’s house in cuffs. And by the way, you really should take a close look at that reverse mortgage she mentioned.”

“No kidding? Do you guys moonlight in real-estate loans when you’re not harassing innocent citizens?”

“No, but our office fields complaints, and lately a lot of them have involved reverse mortgages. Older people sign over their homes in return for a monthly payment — in effect, a mortgage in reverse. The problem’s in the fine print. They think the agreement promises them payments for life, but some are strictly short-term, only a year or two. Perfectly legal, but damned unfair. Your mom—”

“Leave my mom out of this. You’re not our friend. You’ve bullied your way into our home looking for dirt on my brother. How do you people sleep at night?”

“Not all that well, sometimes,” she admitted, looking away. “You’re a loan officer at the bank, right? Do you like your job, Mr. O’Donnell?”

“Sure, for the most part. I enjoy helping people improve their lives.”

“But that’s not always possible, is it? You certainly can’t approve every application, can you? Do you enjoy saying no?”

“Of course not. But sometimes it’s necessary. Why?”

“Because there are aspects of my job I don’t like either. As for your mom, I was just—”

“Butting into something that’s none of your business, Agent Sirico,” he said coldly, cutting her off. “A local real-estate broker wrote the agreement, I’m sure it’s fine. We’d better get back. You might miss something incriminating.”

The party was winding down, the last of the guests saying their goodbyes, shaking hands with one another, embracing Mama Meg, calling out “Merry Christmas” as they walked to their cars in the gently falling snow.

Inside, the poker game was well under way, men in shirtsleeves around the dining-room table, Iron Mike and his bodyguards, a city councilman, two union officers, Carl Vanston, and a reporter for the Detroit Free Press.

“Did you two have a nice walk?” Mama Meg called from the kitchen.

“Lovely, Ma.”

“Good. Be nice to this girl, son. She’s special.”

Sean sighed. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“Special or not, it’s been a long day,” Gia said. “I think I’ll call it a night.”

“Me too,” Sean said. “I’ll walk you up.” When they reached the top of the stairs, he said, “Your bedroom’s just two doors down from mine. And since we’re supposed to be lovers...”

“Forget it,” Gia said. “What would your mother think? And just in case you sleepwalk, I sleep with a gun under my pillow.”

“Sounds uncomfortable.”

“It works for me. See you in the morning, O’Donnell. And not before.”

“Yes, ma’am. Sleep well.”

In his bedroom, Sean quickly stripped off his tie, put on a leather jacket and a black watch cap pulled down low. Raising his bedroom window, he eased out over the jamb and slid silently down the TV antenna.

Keeping to the shadows, he threaded his way through deserted backyards to a side street where a nondescript black rental waited. Beeping it open, Sean fired it up and drove sedately out onto the suburban streets, his speed well below the limit.

Across town, he pulled into a McDonald’s, open twenty-four hours even on Christmas Eve. Leaving his car at the rear, he walked away, his shoulders hunched against the cold.

Over the next six blocks the neighborhood morphed from working-class to upwardly mobile professionals, two- and three-story Dutch gabled homes with three-car garages.

Checking his Palm Pilot for the address, Sean took a quick look around, then ducked behind the garage, trotting to the backyard. With a passkey, he let himself into the rec room, then moved silently through the darkened house to the master bedroom.

Easing inside, he switched on a laser penlight and crept silently to the head of the bed. Kneeling, he played the light across the eyelids of the sleeping man until they snapped open. And widened.

“Mr. Beckham?”

“What — Who are you? How did you get in here?”

“Hush. None of that matters. Peter Beckham, I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

“I–I don’t keep money here.”

“I don’t want money. All I want is a word. Say the right word and I’m gone.”

“What word?”

“The password. To the computers at your realty office.”

“What? I can’t do that. And it wouldn’t be of any use to you. There’s no money there, either.”

“Did I ask for money? Say the word and I will do you a tremendous favor.”

“What favor?”

“Two years ago, your company started marketing reverse mortgages to elderly homeowners. Your salesmen promised lifetime payments, but that wasn’t true, was it? In fact, the first of those notes will fall due in the new year, allowing your company to repossess the homes.”

“Those contracts are perfectly legal,” Beckham said, swallowing.

“Of course they are. It’s just business, I understand that. You’re entirely within your rights to seize those properties and evict the owners, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. Legally. That’s why we’re having this conversation.”

“I — don’t understand.”

“Sure you do, Peter. You’re a smart businessman and I’m counting on your intelligence. For example, why would I want the password?”

“Because — one of your relatives has a reverse mortgage? Look, if that’s all it is, I’ll cancel it! I can—”

“Not good enough. If you only change one, it’ll be obvious that pressure was brought and who brought it. No, you’re going to cancel them all. Every last one of them.”

“Even if I wanted to, I can’t do that. We sold those contracts to a—”

The short punch caught him flush on the mouth, snapping his head back against the headboard.

“Lie to me again, Pete, and it’ll be the last lie you ever tell,” Sean hissed. “Your company plans to develop those properties. You’ve already got financing lined up. That’s why simply canceling them won’t do. Your company computers are going to be hit by a virus that will find and destroy those records everywhere they’ve gone. During the disruption, you’re going to announce a change of policy, and cancel all reverse mortgages. And in return for this gesture of goodwill, a national labor union will transfer all of its acquisition business to your office.”

“A labor union,” Beckham echoed through bloodied lips. “I see.”

“Yes, I believe you do. What’s the word?”

Beckham hesitated. “Dexter,” he mumbled at last. “The password is Dexter.”

“Smart move, Mr. Beckham,” Sean said, rising, staring down at the rumpled realtor. “You won’t regret this. Unless, of course, you’re thinking ‘Thank God for hard copies.’ That once I’m gone, you can just call the police, report my visit, and then go ahead with the evictions. Is that what you’re thinking?”

Beckham didn’t answer. Which was answer enough.

“I thought you might be. But that would be a huge mistake, Mr. Beckham. Because I’m your last chance. You live in this town, you do business here. I had no trouble finding you and I’m only the Ghost of Christmas Past. The next guy who comes for you won’t be a ghost. He’ll turn you into one. Goodbye, Mr. Beckham.”

“Wait! I gave you the wrong word! It’s not Dexter, it’s Rosebud.”

“Yes, it is. See? I knew I could count on your intelligence. Go back to sleep, Mr. Beckham. And have a merry Christmas.”

Awake at first light, Sean dressed in running togs and tiptoed down the hall to Gia’s room. Listened outside her door a moment. Thought about tapping, decided against it.

Downstairs, bodies were scattered about like a battlefield. Snoring card players dozed in recliner chairs or huddled in sleeping bags in the ember glow of the fireplace. Iron Mike was curled up on the couch, snoring softly, bare shins sticking out beyond the blanket. Sean stared down at him for a moment. Mike’s eyes blinked open.

He mumbled something, then coughed. “Everything okay?”

Sean nodded. “Fine. I’m going for a run. Wanna come?” But his brother was already asleep.

New snow had fallen overnight and the morning was utterly silent, no traffic, no pedestrians. Vagrant flakes drifted on the hint of a winter breeze. Sean walked half a block, stretching out, then kicked into a lope, jogging through a glistening, swirling world of white.

A dark sedan rumbled up behind him. He moved over to let it pass but it gunned ahead instead, cutting him off. Vanston leapt out in front of him, looking ragged and unshaven, a weapon at his side.

“Hold it right there,” he barked. “Lean against the car, O’Donnell, and spread ‘em. You’re under arrest.” Gia Sirico was out of the car now, too, circling behind his back.

“What is this?” Sean asked.

“Did you really think you’d get away with it? I played cards with those union goons for eight hours straight, watched ‘em kill a fifth of scotch apiece, get so blasted they could barely see their cards. But not a slip, not a sideways glance, not a sniff of anything illegal. I could have been playing with Quakers.”

“How much did they clip you for?” Sean asked.

“That’s not the point! With all the hustles your brother’s got going, strong-arm, extortion, racketeering, no way he’d go that long without mentioning something. Unless he was warned. Which cancels our deal, jerk-off. You’re busted.”

“For embezzlement?” Sean asked. “Actually, that’s been cleared up. Our auditing division called first thing this morning. They found the problem and the missing money last night. Turned out to be a computer glitch after all. They notified your office. Have you checked your messages?”

“I told you to lean against the car.”

“Screw yourself, Vanston. I cooperated with you to save myself and the bank embarrassment. But I’m not jammed up anymore. And I’m done playing. This game’s over.”

“I won’t tell you again,” Vanston snarled, raising his weapon.

“Put it away, Carl,” Sirico said, snapping her cell phone closed. “I just checked my messages. He’s right. He’s off the hook.”

“Damn it, he knew it all along. He was just jerking us around!”

“If so, he made a righteous job of it. Now put that piece away. Go home to your family. I’ll finish up here.”

Vanston slowly holstered his weapon, his eyes locked on Sean’s the whole time. “We aren’t done, O’Donnell.”

“Take the car,” Gia said. “Go home, get some sleep.”

“You sure?”

“I’ll grab a cab. I want a few words with our friend, here. With no witnesses.”

“Whatever you say,” Vanston growled. “See you Monday.” Slamming the door, he matted the pedal and roared off.

“You’re his boss?” Sean said, surprised. “I didn’t realize that.”

“Maybe you’re not as clever as you think.”

“Probably not. That ‘no witnesses’ business sounded ominous. Am I in trouble?”

“I haven’t decided yet. I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

“Sorry.”

“You should be. I’m good at my job, Mr. O’Donnell, and I had a gut feeling something was wrong here from the beginning.”

“Like what?”

“You, mostly. I don’t have any family, but the idea of a guy selling out his own brother at Christmas? That’s cold. Stone-cold. Not that I don’t run across some stone-cold types in my work; I do. But after meeting your mom, and watching you and your brother break each other’s balls—”

“That’s no act. We really don’t get along. You think it’s easy working in a bank with an albatross like Iron Mike around your neck?”

“Probably not. But he’s still your brother, isn’t he? And when push came to shove, I couldn’t believe you’d sell him out. Maybe I didn’t want to believe it. Yet you did everything we asked. Introduced us around, even conned your own mother. Stone-cold, O’Donnell. That’s why I had trouble sleeping. Trying to figure out why you’d do a thing like that.”

“And did you?”

“I think so. Around midnight, it dawned on me that we were here because you wanted us to be. Something was in the wind and you wanted your brother to have an ironclad alibi for it. And what could be more airtight than playing poker all night with an FBI agent?”

Sean said nothing.

“The idea bugged me so much, I went to your room to ask you about it.”

“Did you? That’s interesting.”

“Especially since you weren’t there.”

“No, I meant it was interesting that you visited my room, found me gone, and didn’t mention it to your partner. I’m sure he’d happily beat a confession out of me. So why didn’t you tell him?”

“It’s not against the law to leave your room. Even by the window. And...”

“And?”

She hesitated. “Maybe I owed you one. Payback. Because I didn’t like crashing your Christmas party. And because you aren’t quite as vile as I thought.”

“That’s all it was? Payback?”

She didn’t answer. Which, again, was an answer of a sort. “I have to call a cab.”

“Whoa up, lady. You don’t get off that easy.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You were right on all counts. And maybe I was a jerk for wasting your time, but I did do exactly what you asked. I got your guy close to my brother.”

“After warning him.”

“Wrong. I said I wouldn’t warn him and I didn’t. Didn’t have to. That’s the part you didn’t get. Mike and I really are polar opposites. He’d never trust any stranger I brought home. The only stone-cold thing I did was lie to my mom. And since you forced me into that, you have to make it right.”

“Really? And how would I do that?”

“My mom really likes you. If you bail out now she’ll blame me and we’ll all have a miserable holiday. So since this charade was entirely your idea, it’s only fair that you see it through and pretend to like me for one more day.”

“What? Of all the incredible gall—”

“I know, I’ve already admitted I’m a jerk. But my mom’s not. And right now she’s probably in there baking your favorite pie. Lemon meringue, right? Or was that a fib, too?”

“No, that part was true.”

“Good. Then stay. Besides, if you hang around, maybe Iron Mike might say something incriminating.”

“You think?”

“Not a chance. Mom never lets us talk shop at home. But I promise you’ll have a good time anyway. What do you say?”

She didn’t say anything. Stood there, reading him like a news-paper. So he offered her his arm. And after a moment’s hesitation, she took it. And they strolled back down the glistening, picture-postcard street together.

“I like your mom’s house,” she said. “You really should look into that reverse mortgage business.”

“No problem, I’m sure it’ll work out.”

“Funny, I have a feeling it already has. This pie better be really special.”

“Oh, it will be. My mom’s a great cook. Besides, in case you hadn’t noticed, on Christmas Day everything tastes a little bit sweeter.”

Copyright ©2006 by Doug Allyn

“What we offer is ‘your own fault insurance.’ If anything happens to you, it’s your own fault!”