Maggie Lee (Book 22): The Hitwoman Goes To Prison Page 2

  For a long moment, I didn’t answer him. “I guess you’re right,” I admitted, finally.

  He nodded. “Okay, so can we leave that in the past? What’s done is done. We have another job to do.”

  I nodded. “Are you coming in with me to talk to this Boscov guy? Are you going to help me flip him?”

  “Like a pancake?” Zeke mocked.

  “If we’re supposed to be a team, working to get the boy’s mother out of prison, you need to take my plan more seriously,” I told him sternly.

  He chuckled. “Has anyone ever told you that you sound like Susan sometimes?”

  I shook my head, not sure whether I was proud or embarrassed to be compared to my aunt in such a way.

  “The closest I’ll ever get to stepping into a prison is pulling into a parking lot. I don’t get any closer to the doors than that.”

  Surprised at the edge in his tone, I glanced at him sharply. I wasn’t sure if it was because he just didn’t like prisons because that’s where his family was, even though he had been the one to help send them there, or if it was because of some personal connection he had to the prison system.

  I wanted to ask him, but considering that every conversation we had was being eavesdropped on, I didn’t think it was the right time or place to do that.

  “No worries,” I told him with a false lightness. “I can handle this.”

  He arched his eyebrows but didn’t say anything. We continued the rest of the drive to the prison in silence. He pulled up to the visitors’ gate and threw the car into park.

  “Be careful in there, Maggie,” he said.

  I nodded and reached for the door handle.

  “Really,” he said sternly. “You seem to get yourself into trouble more than the average person.”

  “My grandmother would have been proud,” I told him jokingly. “She used to say I was remarkably unremarkable, remember that?”

  “Your grandmother said that about you?”

  I shrugged. “My aunts came by their various neuroses for a reason, and I assume she was the main contributor.”

  “Explains why Herschel took off and never looked back.”

  “Maybe,” I replied carefully. “I can understand why my grandfather left, but it didn’t make sense that he didn’t return to the family fold once his wife had passed.”

  “Maybe he was afraid of her ghost. The average person would be,” Zeke quipped. Then he grew serious. “Isn’t that your secret weapon?” Zeke asked, giving me a hard look. “That everyone underestimates you?”

  I blinked, surprised by the intensity in his tone. “You think that’s a superpower?”

  “Pretty damn close to it,” he admitted. “Hell, even I’ve underestimated you at times.”

  “But not anymore?”

  Zeke smiled. It was a genuine smile, and it made me remember that we were good friends. “You’re not average, Maggie. You’re incredible. Incredibly kind. Incredibly loyal. And sometimes, incredibly foolish.” He leaned across the car and placed a quick kiss on my cheek. “Be careful in there.”

  I nodded and let myself out of the car. I felt a little better about going inside, knowing that someone believed in me. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t screw this up.

  4

  I sat on the hard plastic chair in the prison waiting room, nervously anticipating the arrival of Barry Boscov. I’d finally read the file that Ms. Whitehat had provided and Boscov was the man who had testified against Boy’s mother. It was his testimony that had put her in prison, and it was why she was unavailable to take care of her son.

  Boscov walked in, his beady little eyes narrowing as he took me in. “You don’t look like a lawyer.”

  “Thank goodness for that,” I quipped.

  “So, who are you?” he asked, settling into the seat opposite me. “What do you want?”

  “Mr. Boscov,” I said, trying to be as charming as Aunt Susan had taught me to be. “May I call you, Barry?”

  “I prefer Berry.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He leaned forward and clearly enunciated, “Berry, like the fruit.”

  “Your mother named you after a fruit?”

  “That’s a new thing with celebrities now,” Boscov informed me. “But no, my mother named me Barry. But I prefer Berry because I’m a fruitaholic.”

  I blinked, unsure of what to make of that statement. “A fruitaholic?”

  He nodded earnestly. “I am addicted to…” he paused dramatically. “Fruit.”

  I swallowed a smile. I’d never heard of such a thing before, but considering how outrageous my life is, it did not surprise me that I had now encountered the term.

  He glanced around the drab institutional room. “Obviously,” he said with disdain, “this is not the kind of place a fruitaholic should be.”

  I did my best to nod sympathetically. “You testified against a Rhonda Pelly,” I began.

  Barry/Berry snorted. “I certainly did.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  He raised a shoulder and looked around the room to make sure nobody else was listening to our conversation. “Somebody made it worth my while.”

  A flicker of anger rose to life in my gut. He’d revealed that he’d ruined a woman’s life, and with such cold detachment. It seemed so wrong. I tamped down on my ire and practiced my charm. I flashed him a smile and tried to sound impressed as I asked, “Who made it worth your while?”

  Boscov rocked back in his chair and gave me a calculating look. “Let’s just say I wasn’t the only one involved.”

  “Who else was?” I asked, trying not to let his sly smarminess get under my skin.

  “Now, that information is going to cost you,” he said, realizing he had the upper hand.

  “I’m not a lawyer,” I said.

  He shook his head. “Lawyers are a dime a dozen. What I need, I think you can provide.”

  Bile rose in my throat at the idea of sexually servicing him. I shook my head. “I don’t think so.” I wanted to help Boy, but there was no way I was going to—

  “Fruit,” he said, interrupting my thoughts.

  I froze, and I’m pretty sure I looked at him like he was a crazy person. “Fruit?”

  “I need you to pay off the guard and slip me a couple of Aussies,” he said.

  “Aussies?” I parroted, thoroughly confused.

  “Kiwis, you idiot,” he said. “I need you to pay off the guard and get me a couple of kiwis.”

  I scowled. “I’m pretty sure that refers to New Zealanders, not Australians,” I said.

  Boscov shrugged. “Same thing.”

  I shook my head. I wasn’t a Geography major, but even I knew that Australia and New Zealand were different countries.

  “They’re not,” I began to explain, but he held up a hand to silence me.

  “Are you going to get me my fruit, or are you going to walk out of here without the information you need?”

  I gave him a long hard look, trying to decide if it was worth it to pay off a guard.

  An image of Boy, lonely and scared, flashed in my mind. I knew I had to do it. “Okay,” I conceded. “But I don’t have any kiwis on me, so I have to go get some cash to pay off a guard and get you your fruit.”

  He nodded his approval. “Tomorrow. Come back tomorrow with it.”

  I nodded my agreement. He got up and left the room.

  “A woman’s future hangs on a couple of pieces of fruit,” I uttered under my breath.

  I got to my feet slowly and glanced around the space. I’d been here before, multiple times, visiting my father. It was both familiar, and strange, to be back here. I wondered how long it would be before I visited my father here again.

  5

  Zeke did not seem too impressed with my negotiating or interrogation skills when I got back into the car and told him what had happened.

  “What makes you think he’s going to tell you the truth?” he asked, once I’d finished telling my story.

  I leaned back a
gainst my seat and gave him a hard look. “What makes you think he’s going to lie to me?”

  “He’s in prison, for one thing.”

  I raised a shoulder in the most lackadaisical shrug I could muster. “It’s not like people outside of prison don’t lie.”

  “I just think you could have found a more time efficient—” He snapped his mouth shut.

  I assumed he did so because he saw the anger he’d ignited in me, and he thought better than fanning the flames of my ire.

  “It’s simple,” I told him. “Tomorrow, I’ll come back. I’ll pay off the guard, I’ll give him his stupid kiwis, which by the way, just taste like rotten bananas,” I added because I was in a pissy mood, “and I’ll get the information we need.”

  Zeke started the car. “I’m not sure you’ll get all the answers we need. Let’s hope you get a piece of information that takes us on the next step of our journey, to getting Rhonda Pelly out of prison.”

  “Are you going to be this negative the whole time?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I’m not being negative, I’m being realistic.”

  “If the woman was wrongly convicted based on incorrect witness statements,” I said, “it should be pretty easy to get her out of prison.”

  He put the car into drive. “You really have no idea how the American justice system works, do you?”

  We’d barely rolled a yard when a body crashed into the hood.

  “What the—?” Zeke gasped, slamming on the brakes.

  The man, who had landed on the hood of Zeke’s car, was glaring at us. “You almost ran it over.”

  “Ran what over?” Zeke asked, then turned and asked me, “What did I almost run over? I have a great driving record.”

  I shrugged, wondering if he’d added that last bit for whoever was listening to our conversation. I hadn’t seen anything, but then, I wasn’t the one behind the wheel, so I hadn’t been looking that carefully.

  The man spun around and began crab walking around the front of Zeke’s car.

  Zeke leaned forward, watching the guy with wide eyes. “Do you know this guy?”

  “No,” I said indignantly. “Why would you even ask that?”

  “Have you seen the people that you know?” Zeke answered sharply.

  When the man got a little farther away, we noticed he was chasing something.

  “Is that a—” Zeke began to ask.

  “Help! Help me!” a high-pitched voice begged.

  The words were clear, even through the glass of Zeke’s car.

  “It’s a pig,” I said, reaching for my door handle.

  “Where are you going?” Zeke asked.

  “He’s chasing a pig around a prison parking lot,” I said.

  “I don’t want to be barbecued!” the pig squealed, scrambling away from the man.

  Zeke grabbed my arm. “Maggie, are you crazy?”

  “Have you seen the people I’m related to?” I countered.

  “You can’t get involved. We’re here to do a job, not run an animal rescue.”

  Despite Zeke’s disapproval, I opened my car door.

  “Hop in,” I yelled to the swine.

  The pig, seeing the open door and her possible escape, sped toward us.

  “Hop in?” Zeke asked. “I’m not going to drive that guy around to catch his pig.”

  “I wasn’t talking to the man,” I told him as the pig lumbered up to the door. She put her front feet into the car but couldn’t lift her fat little body inside.

  “Don’t—” Zeke started to protest. “Maggie, you are not letting a pig into my car.”

  “It’s not your car,” I reminded him. Unhooking my seatbelt, I reached down and strained to lift her chubby little body inside. She was heavier than she looked, weighing at least twenty pounds.

  “What are you doing?” Zeke asked when he saw that the space between my seat and the dashboard was now filled with a living breathing pig.

  “Drive,” I told him, slamming my door shut.

  “No,” Zeke retorted.

  “He’s coming,” I said, pointing to the now furious man who was running at the car, shaking his fist.

  Zeke didn’t have to be told twice, he put the pedal to the metal, left rubber streaks on the asphalt, and sped away. “Great,” he said. “Now you have me guilty of livestock thievery.”

  “I am not livestock,” the pig gasped, still breathless from running away from the man.

  I couldn’t exactly ask her what she was, considering Zeke was gritting his teeth, strangling the steering wheel, and glancing nervously in the rearview mirror. Instead, I pet her head, trying to convince her I was friendly.

  “What have you gotten us into now, Maggie?” Zeke asked.

  “Nothing,” I said defensively. “What was I supposed to do? Let him barbecue her?”

  “One,” Zeke said with annoyance, “you don’t know that he was going to barbecue her. And two, you don’t know it’s a her.”

  “I most certainly am,” the pig snuffled in the most ladylike manner.

  “He was,” I said. “And she is.”

  “How do you know?” Zeke asked.

  “I just do.”

  “All you know how to do, Maggie,” he said tiredly, “is find trouble.”

  6

  Zeke drove with silent fury all the way back to Herschel’s place.

  The pig, mercifully, remained quiet for the ride, as though she knew that any sound she made would disturb the driver immensely.

  “You should see if she’s chipped,” Zeke declared as he pulled into Herschel’s driveway.

  “I am not broken,” the pig retorted on a soft squeal.

  “Chipped?” I asked. I knew what Zeke meant, but I needed the pig to hear his explanation.

  “Maybe she was somebody’s pet,” Zeke said grudgingly. “Maybe she was microchipped like a cat or a dog.”

  “I’ll look into it,” I told him.

  “I’ll pick you up the same time tomorrow,” Zeke said. “I can handle getting the cash to pay off the guard. Can you handle the fruit?”

  “Fruit!” the pig squealed with delightful anticipation.

  Zeke covered his ears with his hands, wincing.

  I pressed down on her snout to keep her quiet. “I can handle that. It will all work out,” I told him as I awkwardly stumbled out of the car and then lifted the pig out after me.

  “I hope so,” Zeke said.

  I put the animal down on the ground and together we watched Zeke drive away.

  The pig began to shuffle off.

  “Hey, where do you think you’re going?”

  She glanced back at me but didn’t answer.

  “I saved your life,” I told her. “I think you could be polite enough to respond to me when I ask you a question.”

  The pig stopped in her tracks, wiggled her little ears, and snorted, “Are you really trying to have a conversation with me?”

  “Yes,” I told her. “I really am.”

  She walked back toward me. “Are you trying to say you understand me, human?”

  “I can understand you perfectly,” I told her.

  The pig stared at me for a second, then burst out with, “Oh my stars! Oh my stars! That’s the best thing ever!” She was so excited that she ran around me in circles.

  I chuckled. “Okay, calm down. Tell me what your name is.”

  “Matilda,” she told me proudly.

  “Well, hello there, Matilda. I’m Maggie.”

  “I’ve never met a human who could understand me before,” she gushed.

  “There are a couple of us around,” I told her. “Soon, you’ll meet my grandfather Herschel, he can understand you. And there’s my brother Ian, he can, too.”

  “Is this a magical place?” Matilda asked.

  I laughed. “No, nobody would ever think this was a magical place. Cursed, maybe. Come on,” I told her. “I’ll introduce you to everybody.”

  As we walked back toward the compound, I asked, “A
re you somebody’s pet? Should we try to find your previous owners?”

  She dejectedly crumpled to the ground.

  I stopped in my tracks and looked back at her. I was sure I could see tears shining in her eyes.

  “They don’t want me anymore,” she said softly. “I got too big. I’m not cute anymore.”

  “You’re still cute,” I assured her.

  “They sold me to that man so that he could roast me on a spit.” She shuddered.

  I walked back and sat down on the ground beside her. She laid her head in my lap, much like DeeDee likes to do. “I promise, I’m not going to let anybody do that to you,” I told her. “You’ll be safe here. It’s a little crazy, but you’ll be safe.”

  She grunted her pleasure. We sat there on the ground for a few minutes in companionable silence. I was grateful for the quiet, I don’t think she was in the mood to meet anyone else. But it had to be done. Introductions have to be made in polite society.

  “Come on,” I said, patting her hind area. “Let’s go.” I got up and led the way back to the buildings.

  “Who goes there?” Percy, the blind peacock, bellowed as we approached.

  “It’s just me, Percy,” I told the beautiful bird. “We have a new friend who’s going to be staying here, Matilda.”

  “Greetings and salutations,” Percy said, spreading out his tail feathers and bowing in our general direction.

  “Hello,” Matilda replied.

  “We’ll see you soon,” I said to the bird, and then winced at my poor choice of words considering that he’s visually impaired.

  “Not if I see you first,” he joked, and let out a squawk that would have woken the dead as his form of laughter.

  We moved on to the barn. “Hey, Irma,” I called, giving the donkey a little advanced warning that we were here.

  “Maggie, savior of my home,” the donkey brayed sarcastically.

  “Hi,” Matilda oinked.

  The donkey flattened her ears and pawed at the ground. I was a little worried she was going to start kicking her back wall again.

  “This is Matilda,” I told her hurriedly. “I thought maybe she could stay in here with you for a bit.”

  “No,” the donkey bellowed. “Absolutely not. I will not share my sanctuary.” For emphasis, she kicked the wall.