In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(64)

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Moira said, blinking rapidly. “And your mother?”

“I lost her, too, six years ago,” Sveti said.

“Tragedy at every turn.” Richard forked up a bite of salmon.

“Watch it, Dad,” Sam said.

“A tale of woe calculated to bring out your pathological hero complex,” his father said. “Orphaned by a bullet, eh? Classic.”

“He was disemboweled, actually,” Sveti said.

Connie’s fork clattered on her plate. They stared at the fish, which had been opened, filleted, and sprinkled with herbs and almonds.

Constance’s chair screeched as she shoved it back. She scurried out of the room with her hand on her mouth.

Sam’s father swallowed his mouthful with an audible gulp, and coughed. “I beg your pardon?”

“He was undercover, investigating a mafiya boss,” Sveti explained. “He was betrayed. It ended badly.”

Sam’s father wiped his mouth. “Dramatic.”

“Yes, it was.” Sveti was unfazed by his tone. He thought she was making this up. If only. What she wouldn’t give to have it be untrue.

“I’m surprised after such trauma that you would want anything to do with someone in police work,” Richard Petrie said.

She glanced at Sam. “I’m surprised, too,” she admitted.

“Not that I’m in police work,” Sam said. “You’ve killed that.”

The senior Petrie did not deny it. “No one could blame a father from trying to keep his son from destroying himself!”

“I’m blaming you anyway,” Sam said.

“Calm down,” Moira soothed. “Sam, have some more potatoes.”

“Do you care to explain what you were doing on the six o’clock news? Putting fresh cadavers in the morgue?” Richard demanded.

“They were torturing her.” He indicated Sveti. “I objected. That was how they came to be cadavers.”

Connie came back and sat down carefully at the table, still very pale, and with a shiny forehead.

Richard turned to Sveti. “Why did these people attack you, if I may ask?”

Sveti took a sip of wine. “I’m not exactly sure.”

Petrie, Sr. looked down his nose at her. “Oh, really.”

It took talent, to load just three syllables with such a quantity of contempt and disbelief. Sveti reminded herself that this man’s opinion meant nothing, changed nothing. “Really,” she affirmed. “My prime theory is that they want information my mother was gathering when she was murdered. I don’t have it, but they think I do.”

“Dear God.” Moira put down her fork and pressed her napkin to her mouth. “Your mother, too? Spare us the details this time, dear.”

“They could also be a local gang who traffic people from China for slave labor,” Sveti said. “I inconvenienced some of them last year. They weren’t pleased.” She shrugged. “Who knows.”

“Ah.” Richard turned to Sam. “I see that your choice in lady friends is as colorful and haphazard as your other life choices.”

“I try, Dad,” Sam said. “Always.”

“So, Sam, dear,” Moira interjected, with false cheerfulness. “Let’s look to the future, shall we? Do you have any plans?”

“Yes, I’m going to the airport tomorrow,” he replied. “I’m starting my new career. In Italy. With Sveti.”

His father blinked. “Excuse me? Italy? What new career?”

“I’m going as her bodyguard.” Sam stuck a forkful of salmon in his mouth as that grenade bounced and rolled into the enemy camp.

“But . . . but that’s insane!” his father said. “Bodyguarding?”

“Her life is in danger,” Sam said. “She needs protection. And my career prospects are ever narrowing, thanks to you. Bodyguarding is more interesting than private investigating. Following cheating spouses and wayward sons around. Big yawn. I’d be good at forensic accounting, but it would bore me into an early grave. I could join the military, I guess, if they’d have me. As beat-up and long in the tooth as I am.”

His father’s mouth was white. There were dents beside his nostrils. “You’d truly go to such lengths just to spite me?”

Sam shook his head. “No, I’m going to Italy because I want to. But I would prefer it if you kept your tentacles out of my professional life.”

“What will you be doing in Italy, Svetlana?” Connie broke in.

Sveti briefly explained about the conference in San Anselmo, the award ceremony, and the London job.

“Martin,” the senior Petrie called. “Bring me my tablet, please.”

The uniformed server passed it to him. The older man poised the little pen over the keyboard. “The name of the organization? I’d love to see the announcement for this award. Congratulations, by the way.”

Sveti gazed at him. “Are you trying to catch me in a lie?”

Petrie blinked innocently behind his glasses. “If the shoe fits.”

“It doesn’t,” she said. “Look up the Tran-Global Business Organization against Human Trafficking, and this year’s Solkin Prize.”

“Better yet.” Sam plucked the tablet and pen out of his father’s hands, tapped the flat-screen keyboard. “Watch the reason she’s getting this prize. It’s because she has a set of solid brass balls. She busted a sweatshop slavery ring single-handedly, right here in Portland.”