Blood and Fire (McClouds & Friends #8)(125)

From Cray’s Cove to Rosaline Creek and now back to Connor McCloud’s house in Seattle. Rosa Ranieri got around. But suburban Seattle was a much better bet for arranging a chance meeting than Steele’s cliffside fortress in Cray’s Cove, so as soon as the woman returned there, he’d put things in motion, asked for some days off. Hadn’t said anything to his supervisor about acting in furtherance of a case, though. Jake would have insisted on him hooking up with local detectives before moving an inch, and Petrie wanted to be able to jump in any direction, fast.

He’d get his ass kicked for this later, almost certainly. Wouldn’t be the first time. He never had been great at following the rules. Just ask his dad.

It was a sunny day, Connor McCloud and his wife Erin were out at their places of employment, and Margot McCloud, Davy McCloud’s wife, had left her two kids at her sister-in-law’s house as well. The older kids inside would be agitating to be taken to the playground. He hoped that, anyway, having already spent half a day waiting for a chance to have a word with Rosa Ranieri. The McClouds had circled in. He didn’t blame them.

Bruno Ranieri had dropped off the face of the earth. Lily Parr as well. And bodies were piling up. Families, rather. Petrie needed some answers. He was going to go crazy. This whole thing made his flesh creep.

Movement at the front door. He whipped up the binocs. Rosa Ranieri was the first out the door, her broad back first, dressed in a crimson wool coat. She wrestled a baby carriage onto the porch. The littlest daughter of Davy McCloud must be in it. Two older children spilled out, a blond boy, about five, a redheaded girl, about four.

Then he saw her. The dark-haired girl. She stepped out with a toddler in her arms, in a black wool coat that showed off shapely legs, little black half boots. She put the child down on wobbly legs, helped Rosa maneuvr the carriage down the porch steps.

He peered through the binocs, zeroing in on her face. Big, shadowy, wide-set eyes. High, sharp cheekbones. A thick, swirly mane of dark hair hanging down. She scooped the child up again, kissed her, smiling. She was a stunner. If she were eight inches taller, she could supermodel. She was tiny, though. Five-two, max. Maybe less.

This waif was no McCloud wife. None of whom were anything to sneeze at in terms of feminine good looks, of course. He’d spied all four of them, trooping in and out of the house over the last two days, and had been duly impressed. But this one was too young.

Four little kids. One newborn, one toddling, and two bigger ones raising hell, that was too many for one old lady to watch outdoors; he had nephews and nieces and could say that with authority. So this chick was probably a local high school girl, paid to help Rosa babysit.

Which made him a slavering, oinking perv.

He got out of the car, irritated at himself. He started toward them, keeping an eye on the two women’s progress as they herded the kids across the street. Once in the playground, the boy kicked a ball into the trees and ran after it. His redheaded sister or cousin followed, and the bombshell went running after, yelling for them to slow down.

Petrie took his time as he strolled into the park. The bombshell ran like a gazelle, hair flying like a banner, gleaming in the sunshine. Reddish highlights glinting in it. Pay attention, dick for brains. He focused his mind and headed toward the park bench Rosa Ranieri inhabited, jiggling the stroller with her foot, the toddler on her knee.

“Excuse me? Ms. Ranieri?” he called.

She glanced over. Instant, eye-slitted suspicion. She clutched the baby protectively to her bosom. The other hand dug into the huge purse that lay on the bench beside her. “Who wants to know?”

“I’m Detective Sam Petrie,” he said. “Portland Police Bureau.”

Her eyes opened wide, magnified behind her lenses. “You’re that son of a bitch who practically gave me a heart attack last week? You have the nerve to come here? I should shoot your ass dead right now!”

He stared at her hand. “Tell me you’re bluffing, Ms. Ranieri. You don’t carry a loaded gun in your purse while you supervise toddlers.”

She pulled her hand out. “Nah,” she admitted. “Bimbi get into everything. What you doin’ here? You’re an *. You ain’t welcome.”

“I have something to show you,” he told her. “May I sit down?”

“No!” she yelled. “What part of ‘you’re an *’ and ‘you ain’t welcome’ do you not understand, sweet cheeks?”

Sweet cheeks? He choked back a laugh, kept his face poker stiff. “I really need to ask you a couple of questions,” he said.

“And I really need for you to piss off!”

“I swear. It’s nothing that would harm your nephew.”

She harrumphed. “Yeah? I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Of course you will,” he said. “But how can you judge if you don’t hear the questions? You could even warn Bruno of the direction my investigation is taking. I understand that. It would be aiding and abetting, of course, but a person’s gotta do what a person’s gotta do.”

Her dark gaze was sharp. “Don’t you get tricky with me.”

“Nope,” he said. “Just the facts. So may I sit down?”

“No,” she snapped. “Don’t get near the babies. Ask what you want, and then piss off.”

He pulled the manila envelope out of his coat. “I imagine the McClouds have told you about the results of those genetic tests?”