Free Triage: A Thriller (Shell Series) by Phillip Thomas Duck Page B

Lisa.”
    “What did you call me?”
    “Mona Lisa. You’re a work of art,” I replied, meaning it with the greatest sincerity.
    “Please leave. I will call the police if I need to.”
    “Don’t turn this into something it doesn’t have to be,” I said.
    “You just love to intimidate others,” she said. “Especially women. All I’ve heard is true.”
    I half-smiled, extended my hand.
    She didn’t take it, didn’t even glance at it. I pulled it back.
    “I’m Shell,” I said. “But it sounds as though you know of me already. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
    “The Lord is graceful isn’t He,” she said with a coy smile.
    “What?”
    “My name is of no concern to you, Shell.”
    “Feisty. That’s good. I like a challenge,” I said.
    “Even those you’re certain to lose?”
    “I seldom lose, Mona Lisa.”
    “Why are you here?” she asked.
    “I need a favor of you,” I said.
    “We are not people of favors,” she said, frowning. “Please leave.”
    There was something about her voice; I couldn’t place what it was exactly.
     “Have I spoken with you before? You’re Renny’s sister?”
    “Cousin,” she replied, “not that it is your concern.”
    “Where is your grandfather? Or Renny, even? I’d rather deal with him at this point.”
    The smile on her soft lips removed the top from the jar of butterflies in my stomach. “Giving up are we?” she said.
    “Living to fight another day,” I said. “Where’s your grandfather?”
    Mona Lisa placed the bottle of Cuban rum at her feet, then sat down Indian-style on the porch steps and unzipped the leather portfolio case she’d been carrying, placing it across her lap. I looked down at her and attempted to pull a scent off of her skin or out of her hair. Nothing I could put a finger on. She flipped through several foam boards until she came to an image that stole my breath away. It was a charcoal sketch of Armando, as detailed as a Polaroid image, his mirthful eyes peering up from the page. “Incredible,” I said, studying the image, my eyes leaving Mona Lisa’s shapely legs for the first time.
     “Yes.”
    She turned to another foam board, showed me a second image, this one of her cousin.
    The porch light flashed above us.
    “I need to go,” she said. “Abuela is upset.”
    “I need to speak to Armando, Mona Lisa.”
    “Must you call me that?”
    “Yes,” I said. “I must.”
    The corners of her lips crinkled; she shook her head, and then said something I couldn’t quite make out, the same thing Mrs. Rubalcaba had said earlier. Croak? More? It sounded less harsh from Mona Lisa’s lips, though. At least that’s what I forced myself to believe.
    I questioned her about what she’d said.
    “Pallbearer,” she whispered.
    “I don’t understand.”
    “ Croques-morts ,” she said. “It’s French. I’m taking a course in the language. Abuela has been more fascinated by it than I have. I dread the classes to tell you the truth.”
    “I still don’t understand.”
    “ Croques-morts means pallbearer,” she said. “We’ve taken to calling you that.”
    “Why?” I asked, swallowing, that one word a ball of guilt lodged in my throat.
    Instead of answering, Mona Lisa flipped foam boards again, stopped on another image. The charcoal sketch bled through the sheet of paper on the foam board like a fresh wound. I swallowed hard for a second time. “No. I had nothing to do with Nevada’s…”
    I couldn’t finish.
    “I’m sorry,” Mona Lisa said, looking at me curiously, “I didn’t mean to—”
    “Turn that. Please.”
    “I’m sorry to upset you. Don’t yell, please. Abuela will—”
    “Turn that. Now.”
    She flipped the portfolio case closed, paused for a beat, then zippered it.
    A mouth full of copper pennies. I staved off the feeling of nausea again, allowed my gaze to trail to the brownstone across the street from us. The lights were out.
    Nevada’s, in spirit. One of my assumed names was