Blood and Fire (McClouds & Friends #8)(41)

“He took off at about a quarter to five,” Julio was saying to J. D. “ ’Bout fifteen minutes after Sid and Leona here finally dragged their asses in here, half an hour late. As usual.”

Sid slanted Julio a dark look, but Leona, the Pocahontas chick, didn’t seem to notice the dig. “I cannot believe that was happening right next to me!” she lled. “Murderers, right on the other side of the wall! What if I’d gone out the kitchen door? I could have gotten killed!”

“Who took off at a quarter to five?” Petrie asked.

“Bruno Ranieri,” J. D. told him. “Grandnephew of Rosa Ranieri, the lady who owns the place. She’s up in Seattle right now, visiting family. He was working night shift. Left probably right before it happened.”

“You talked to him yet?” Petrie asked.

J. D. shrugged. “Not answering his cell, or at home. His other work number is still after hours. I left messages everywhere.”

“ ’Course he’s not answering,” Sid said. “He’s with that girl.”

J. D. and Petrie both whipped their gaze around. “What girl?”

“The girl he left the diner with,” Sid explained. “She’d been here when I came in to work for the last few nights. This morning, she gets up and leaves with him. Something tells me he’s not gonna answer his phone for a while.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t, if I was him.”

J. D. and Petrie exchanged glances. “Who is she?” Petrie asked. “Do you know her name?”

“Nope. She was hot, though. Black hair. Glasses. Nice tits.”

“Don’t be gross, Sid,” Leona roused herself to snap. “God, I wish Bruno were here. I’d feel safer if I had a black belt ninja type like him around right now.”

Petrie studied her. “Who’s a black belt ninja type?”

“Oh, Bruno’s amazing,” she said, mistily. “He’s got, like, these muscles that just go on and on, and he does kung fu, like what you see on TV. Kev does, too, but he’s older, and he’s taken.”

“So Bruno Ranieri is a trained martial artist?” Petrie said.

“Leona!” Julio hissed. “Stop being a goddamn cow!”

Leona’s eyes got big, her gummy lashes fluttering as her gaze darted from here to there. “Oh, my God,” she squeaked. “You don’t think that . . . oh, my God, no! No way! Bruno would never . . . he’s, like, only the sweetest guy in the whole world! He would never—”

“Don’t get upset,” Petrie soothed. “We just want to get all the facts. So, this Kev you mentioned. This is another Ranieri? A relative?”

“Sort of,” Julio said reluctantly. “Adopted. His last name is McCloud, now. Used to be Larsen. Long story. But you can forget about him. He’s out of the country, traveling with his girlfriend. Australia, New Zealand, someplace like that. So leave him be.”

“I don’t mean to bug anybody,” Petrie said mildly. “But can I have the phone numbers? Rosa Ranieri, Bruno. Kev McCloud, too, please.”

Julio roused himself, grumbling, and went to the phone on the wall near the kitchen entrance. He tore off a scrap of paper that had been taped to the bottom of it, slapped it down on the counter. “Home, work, and cell for Bruno. Home, cell, and all the McClouds’ numbers for Rosa. And this one here’s Kev’s cell number. But he’s gone.”

Petrie slid the slip of paper into his pocket. “Thanks.”

“This is Bruno, right? Nice.” They all turned at Trish’s voice. She was looking at a framed magazine cover that graced the wall over the dessert counter, sipping her coffee and gnawing her cruller.

“Yeah, that’s Bruno,” Julio said reluctantly.

Petrie strolled over. Aod-looking dark-haired guy flashed a charming, dimpled smile at him from the cover of the Portland Monthly.

“I remember this cover,” Trish told him. “The guy is megacute. Most eligible bachelor? Yum. I’d take him.”

Petrie leaned closer. “Wait a second, I’ve seen this guy. He was mixed up in that weird shit that came down in Beaverton last year, right? When that billionaire got offed, what was that guy’s name?”

“Parrish,” J. D. supplied, joining them and staring at the photo. “None of them ended up being charged with a crime, though.”

“Huh,” Petrie muttered, staring at the guy’s very white teeth, all of which were prominently featured in the picture. “Interesting.”

Trish’s phone buzzed, and she whipped it out. “Yeah? . . . Uh-huh . . . no shit . . . yeah, OK. I’ll be there right away.” She dropped the phone into her pocket, rolling her eyes. “Duty calls. Suicide, over on Wygant. Some clown blew his brains out and managed somehow to set off some kind of explosive device and shoot out the neighbor’s bedroom window at the same time. Big mess.”

“Wow. Takes talent,” Petrie observed.

“Big-time.” Trish kissed her fingertips and pressed them to the glass over the magazine cover. “Bye-bye, dimples,” she crooned.

“You do know those are just a genetically inherited defect in the underlying facial muscle tissue, right?” Petrie told her.

Trish popped the last bite of cruller into her mouth and chewed it, her face blank. “Come again?”