Accidentally Yours Page 3

  “Thank you for coming to the hospital with us.”

  “Sí, gracias, Gaby.”

  “Let’s just be thankful no one was hurt.”

  The three of them hugged before she left the building through the main doors.

  If it weren’t for her sandal, which kept falling off, she would walk to her apartment. But since that might prove difficult at best, she decided to ride the bus home, instead of spending her last ten dollars on a taxi. The bus would let her off on the corner by her apartment building.

  Since moving to San Diego, her law clientele had grown a lot, but she was paying off her deceased husband’s credit cards and student loans as fast as the money came in so she could start building on the savings she’d already accrued in Florida. With California real estate so expensive she would need a substantial down payment before she could hope to buy her own place. That was her goal. As a result, she was trying hard not to spend extra money.

  Paul had been a teacher in Florida. A freak boating accident off the shores of Miami had cut short his life, bringing a tragic end to their two-and-a-half-year marriage.

  Husbandless and childless, she’d wallowed in grief for months. Then came the stage of anger, and finally self-pity. That was when her boss, who’d established firms specializing in immigration law in both New York and Miami, had a serious talk with her.

  He suggested that either she go back to New York, where she’d first been hired by his firm so she could be nearer her family, or she should open up a new firm for him in San Diego. A new place, new faces, might be just what she needed.

  Gaby was grateful for his offer to let her start fresh in California. As soon as she told him yes, he not only paid for her move, he supplied the funds to help her set up an office.

  Before leaving Miami, she sold the car she and Paul just had bought, so she wouldn’t have to make monthly payments on it. With the small sum of money from the insurance received at his death, she paid cash for a used car after she arrived in San Diego. The rest she put in savings. As for their household goods, those went into storage until she found a permanent place to live.

  Through a stroke of good fortune she met Hallie Townsend, a nun who needed temporary housing. Hallie was actually a lay nun, which meant she’d taken vows but didn’t live in a cloister or wear a habit. She was able to mingle freely with people and spread God’s message. The two of them hit it off from the very beginning and decided to share a furnished apartment for a while. In time Gaby hoped to move to a condo near the ocean.

  She’d never regretted the move to San Diego. Besides Hallie’s wonderful company, Gaby loved the beach, and her business had grown to the point where she’d just hired a great woman named Anita Garcia as her secretary.

  Anita had worked for a law firm before she’d quit her job to be a stay-at-home mom. Now that she was divorced and her son was in first grade, she was ready to enter the workplace again. Gaby had agreed to give her the month of September to see that her son was settled into the school routine. Then Anita would report for work the first of October.

  But as fine as everything seemed to be going, there were still moments when memories of a life filled with love surfaced. Usually it was when something went wrong. Like today’s accident.

  For the time being she had no car and no roommate to complain to. Hallie had gone on a religious retreat with some other lay nuns and wouldn’t be back for another week at least.

  WHILE DETECTIVE CRANDALL waited in the phone-company van, Max entered the building through a door where a staircase led to the upper floor. The people at this address in Little Italy lived above the shops.

  He spotted mailbox number four. The postman had been by. Max glanced around to make sure he was alone, then searched through the contents.

  Amidst the junk mail, he recognized the envelope from the traffic-violations department. It looked like Ms. Peris hadn’t paid for a parking ticket yet. He’d had a few of those in his time.

  Interesting also to see American Gun Owner magazine addressed to her. As for The New Yorker, anyone might subscribe to it. But the fact that a copy of it had been mailed to her strengthened his suspicion that she’d been brought out here from the East Coast.

  Brill’s Content came as a surprise. The consumer guide to information about the journalists in today’s media and what made them tick wasn’t the average person’s favorite reading material. It took a certain sophistication to digest the material with any real appreciation. He always bought a copy when he could find one.

  There was another magazine underneath. He pulled it out. The second he saw the title, it sent up a red flag. What would she be doing with Immigrants USA? His eyes narrowed as he scanned the table of contents, which included a major article on the recent influx of Russians in the Portland, Oregon, area.

  Aware he was lingering too long, he put everything back and took the stairs two at a time. Salsa music came from one apartment, the blare of a TV from another. The smell of tomatoes and garlic permeated the corridor, transporting him back to his youth.

  He located her apartment at the end of the hall. Without a buzzer, he had no choice but to knock. If someone answered, he would tell them there’d been a report of a phone problem and he was checking it out.

  When he got no response, he used a device to unlock the door, then slipped inside. Crandall would distract the woman if she returned so Max had time to search the place.

  The tiny living room cum kitchen wasn’t air-conditioned. It was sparsely furnished with an old couch, a Formica-top table with two chairs and an overstuffed chair with an ancient floor lamp. Without paintings or curtains, its stark appearance was depressing.

  The fact that there was no television, stereo, radio, phone or computer to connect her to the outside world could be interpreted several ways. Maybe she was too poor. Or maybe she’d done what a lot of people would love to do, and had boycotted the electronic media altogether.

  A hallway led to a minuscule bathroom with shower only. In the medicine cabinet he found lip gloss, bandages, Mentholatum, sunscreen lotion and a bottle of pain relievers.

  The bedroom was hot and claustrophobic. A fan had been placed on top of the dresser. More surprises awaited him when he discovered a crucifix on the wall above one of the twin beds. Someone lived here with her, it seemed.

  On the only nightstand between the beds he discovered a crossword-puzzle book. Three-fourths of the puzzles, which ranked in the most-difficult category range, had been solved. Next to it he found a missal printed in English. If he didn’t know better, he would think a nun was in residence.

  When he checked the closet, he saw a New York Barrio Gents pennant taped to the inside door.

  He’d been looking for evidence that Ms. Peris was a mafia plant. This was the second thing he’d come across that made him wonder….

  Stickball had originated in the streets of New York. Born and raised in the Bronx—he’d lived there until his parents were killed in a subway accident when he was seven—Max had played it almost every day. Even when he and Gideon had worked for the NYPD, they got up a game with the guys on their time off.

  He’d always remained a fan of the Bronx Knights, a team that had a healthy rivalry with the Barrio Gents. Now the game had started to become a national sport.

  On the weekend coming up, the first Annual Stickball Tournament was going to be held in San Diego. Seven teams would be competing from New York, Florida and California. He and Gideon had been looking forward to it.

  Was it a coincidence that she was a Barrio Gents fan? Or had someone in the ring done their homework so she’d be able to find a creative way to use the information to get close to him?

  Jerked back to a cognizance of his surroundings, he hurried the inspection. Her clothes were mostly pastel skirts and blouses, a few tailored blazers and dresses. Everything modest, nothing remotely expensive.

  He rummaged through the pockets. Found old ticket stubs from the San Diego Zoo, Sea World and a local movie theater. On t
he floor he saw a pair of running shoes and some high heels in a bone color.

  In the drawers he found a couple of extra-large T-shirts, shorts, jeans, a pair of sweats and some underwear. Nothing frilly.

  A thorough search of the pillows and beds, both between and underneath the sheets and mattresses, revealed no weapons, no drugs. Not as much as a pack of cigarettes.

  Maybe the kitchen would reveal something more. The wastebasket contained newspapers, junk mail, a drugstore sack with a recent receipt for the purchase of deodorant and toothpaste, an empty box of Cracker Jack, a half-gallon orange-juice carton and a dead African violet.

  A frying pan and saucepan sat in the drainer at the side of the sink. Except for cookware and a few plates and glasses, the shelves were pretty bare. Alongside a large Ziploc bag of corn flakes and a box of Ritz crackers, he spied soup, macaroni and cheese, a near-empty jar of peanut butter and a tin of Spam. She didn’t own a microwave.

  In the refrigerator he found a couple of yogurts, milk, a half-full carton of eggs, some apples and two beers. Curious because the shape of the bottles looked familiar, he reached for one. As soon as he saw the label, he blinked. Dreher’s imported beer was his favorite!

  When there were thousands of different beers sold worldwide, for her to have this particular brand in her fridge…. Without being special-ordered, it was virtually impossible to find on the West Coast.

  Another coincidence?

  He shut the refrigerator door, then moved to the living room to put a bugging device on the inside of the lamp shade. That was when he spotted a newspaper in the metal magazine rack next to the chair. He pulled the paper out.

  To his surprise he found a yellow legal-size pad full of writing stashed inside. As he started to fold back the pages, two small pocketbooks fell to the floor. He gathered them up. One was an English/Russian dictionary. The other was a phrase book for the serious student of Russian.

  As his eyes scanned the notes on her legal pad, he broke out in a cold sweat. She’d written down information about car accidents—times, dates and locations—within the San Diego area. Page after page. Many of them he recognized as being mafia-related. Several were accidents he’d helped stage with Nikolai.

  Since he knew she wasn’t working for the law, there was only one reason she’d be privy to detailed material of this nature. Though he couldn’t account for the religious artifacts, there was no doubt in his mind that he was this woman’s prey.

  Forget Nikolai.

  Someone higher up had become suspicious of him and was planning to use this woman to find out if he was a traitor. It explained her phone call to his place of employment.

  This apartment had to be a pied-à-terre paid for by the mafia to make Ms. Peris look legitimate. A place to come in between jobs.

  He put everything back in the magazine rack as he’d found it, then let himself out of the apartment. Later he would be back to find out if she bothered to sleep here at night. Since he was her target, he wanted the element of surprise on his side by approaching her first.

  While Detective Crandall drove him to a point two blocks from where he worked, Max changed back to his own clothes, then got out to walk the rest of the way.

  Every Bloomin’ Thing in City Heights West was a small florist shop owned by Karin and Jan Vriend. Max had been their part-time deliveryman since his work with the FBI had brought him here from New York.

  A few minutes later he entered the shop and walked through to the back room, where several female employees were finishing up for the day. They greeted him warmly.

  Karin was busy wrapping decorator foil around a pot of cyclamen. Her blue eyes lit up when she saw him.

  “Oh, good, Anatoly! I’m glad you’re here. A few phone orders came in late. I told them we couldn’t deliver until tomorrow, but if you’re free—”

  He stifled a moan because it meant he would have to work faster than usual. “No problem. I will load the van now.”

  She put a hand over her ample bosom. “What would we do without you?”

  He flashed her a smile. “I would not like to find out.”

  “Nor I.” Her happy laughter followed him out the back where he starting loading the half-dozen orders left for him.

  “Anatoly? Don’t forget this one!” She came running out. “I put it up especially for that nice woman. Just in case.”

  Though she was always urging him to date, he’d never seen her go to such lengths before. “You haven’t even met her!”

  “I don’t need to. She sounded very kind. Special. You can tell a lot from a voice. I have a feeling about the two of you.”

  So do I, Karin. Unfortunately it’s not the same feeling you have.

  “As I told you on the phone, I will think about it.”

  He took the flowers, then winked at her before driving away.

  Associating with the kindhearted Vriends, who emigrated from Holland some twenty years ago, was one of the bright spots in an otherwise dangerous undercover existence.

  They were a caring, industrious family whose generosity reminded him of the delightful people of Little Odessa, the neighborhood in New York where his Russian grandfather had raised him.

  Since being in the Vriends’ employ, he’d become infected with their love of growing things. Many were the times that a situation got so ugly it took the perfume from the flowers to remind him the world could be a beautiful place.

  GABY ENTERED the hallway of her building and reached for the mail. Not only was she still shaken by the accident, she was starving. The bus she’d taken from Girls’ Village had broken down en route. This just hadn’t been her day.

  All the passengers had been forced to wait an hour until another bus arrived to take them the rest of the way. She felt as if she’d been living a nightmare. Pleased to see a bunch of magazines to enjoy after dinner, she started for the staircase with one shoe off and one shoe on.

  Gaby had prided herself on voting in the last state election, and didn’t intend to miss the one coming up. Gun legislation was a huge issue.

  She didn’t own a gun and didn’t plan to buy one. But receiving American Gun Owner magazine was the best way she knew to keep abreast of the gun lobby’s strategies. Like millions of Americans, she was still trying to figure out what the founding fathers of the Constitution meant when they drew up the Second Amendment. It referred to the right to bear arms.

  But before she gave any more thought to that, she needed to come up with a plan to get herself to work every day until her car was repaired. Gaby imagined she was looking at two and a half, maybe three, weeks.

  Anxious to shower and eat, she dashed up the stairs, then hurried to her door where the paperboy had left the newspaper. Great. She could scan the classifieds for a used bicycle.

  Since she’d turned thirty, she’d been meaning to start some kind of exercise program. With her office four miles away, eight miles on a bike each weekday ought to do something for her. After she got her car back, she could take the bike out on weekends for a workout.

  Tomorrow she had no alternative but to take the bus to work. On her lunch hour she’d stop at the shoe repair to get her sandal fixed and see about a bike.

  As she dug in her purse for the keys, she heard noise a little farther down the hall. “How are you this evening, Mr. Arnold?” she automatically called over her shoulder before turning to smile at her neighbor. He and his wife had recently celebrated their sixty-second wedding anniversary.

  “I do not know how he is, but I am fine. The question is, how are you, Ms. Peris?”

  Gaby took a step back. The Russian.

  Standing in the shadowy corridor, he seemed even taller and more attractive than she’d found him earlier in the day with the hot, early-September sun beating down on them.

  “I did not introduce myself properly before. My name is Anatoly Kuzmina.”

  “How did you know my address?”

  “I took the liberty of glancing at the accident report while the officer was
talking to us. Naturally I was delighted to learn that you had phoned where I work to find out my condition.”

  Gaby should never have done it. In fact, she’d regretted the impulse the moment the woman had answered the phone. Now it was too late to undo the damage. Come to think of it, why wasn’t he at work now?

  “I called because I felt terrible about running into your car. I’m sure it frightened your passengers. If I write them each a note of apology, would you see that they get them? I’d also like to do something extra for the man who was injured.”

  He studied her for a moment. “Knowing that you cared enough about their welfare to get in touch with me will be compensation enough. I will pass your message along.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kuzmina.”

  “You are welcome. I am very pleased to see that you are all right. These are for you.”

  From behind his back he thrust a bouquet of long-stemmed pink roses tied with a pink bow at her, forcing her to juggle them with the mail. To her relief the thorns had been removed. She counted a dozen heads at least. Their sweet perfume filled the hallway.

  What had she done?

  “I don’t understand. After crashing into your car, I should be bringing you flowers.”

  His eyes narrowed on her mouth. If insides could melt, that’s what hers were doing. “One day you might surprise me, yes?”

  Oh, brother. She should have been ready for that one—she’d worked with all types of immigrants. But this time there was a major difference. She felt a strong physical attraction to him. In fact, it was growing stronger.

  And he knew it.

  On her last vacation home at Easter, her family, particularly her uncle Frank, who was an incurable romantic, had insisted she wouldn’t always remain dead inside.

  One day when she least expected it, a man would appear from out of the blue, and boom—she wouldn’t know what hit her. That was when she’d realize her mourning period was over.

  Since he’d said that, she supposed she’d been waiting for it to happen. And now who should show up but Anatoly Kuzmina.