Storm Rising

by Douglas Schofield

  * * *

  “I told you when we met that my organization never had any contact with your husband.”

  “You also said we could help each other. What did you mean?”

  “I’ll come to that. But first I need to establish something.” He watched her face. “Your husband was a police officer. He worked to uphold the law, and I must assume you not only loved him, but admired him.”

  “I did.” She felt her lower lip tremble. “Jack was a good man.”

  “Well, Lucinda, as you have probably guessed, there are times when I am not a good man. If you and I are to have a fruitful conversation, I will need to speak plainly. That means I will need to trust you. So the question is: Can I?”

  “You can search me if you like.”

  God, did I just say that?

  Lucy couldn’t believe the words that had just come out of her mouth, but she soldiered on. She stood up and stepped away from the chair. “I mean it.”

  “You mean, search you to see if you’re wearing a transmitter?”

  “Yes.”

  Lanza smiled. “As tempting as that offer might be, it’s not necessary. This house is wired with jamming devices. I already know you’re not wired.”

  Relieved, Lucy dropped back into her seat.

  “Let me ask this,” Lanza said. “When I visited you in your home, I said we might help each other. You were unconvinced. Now, six weeks later, you’re sitting in my home.” He leaned forward. “Tell me how you think you can help me.”

  Lucy blinked. She opened her purse and retrieved a USB drive. “With this.” She handed it to him.

  Lanza looked intrigued. “What’s on it?”

  “Some files that Jack kept at home, hidden. He was doing an off-the-books investigation and I’m sure that’s what got him killed.” She explained how she had found the original flash drive—without mentioning Kevin’s role—and summarized what the files contained. “The County Prosecutor’s Office has the original. I have a copy. That copy is for you.” She explained about Olivetti, about how she’d come to give him the original, and about the informal investigation he had agreed to conduct.

  “Olivetti … we mainly deal with federal prosecutors, but the name’s familiar.”

  “Italian typewriter company?”

  He smiled. “Maybe.”

  “He’s not related to them.”

  “Just as well. I believe they went broke.”

  “No, they merged with somebody else.”

  “Merger is sometimes the smartest move.”

  “But always risky.”

  “As long as you understand that.”

  “I do.”

  “Speaking of risk, by giving me this, you’re probably committing a crime.”

  “What crime?”

  “How about obstruction of justice?”

  “Mr. Lanza, did you have Jack killed?”

  “Call me Dominic.”

  “Did you?”

  “No.”

  “Is there a current police investigation into Jack’s murder?” She answered her own question. “There isn’t. There are a few boxes in a prosecutor’s office, and he’s conducting an unofficial investigation at my request. He has specifically excluded the police from the process.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, where’s the obstruction? Under the New Jersey Code, obstruction requires purposefully impairing or perverting the administration of law, or—in our case—attempting to prevent the police from carrying out an investigation, by intimidation or violence or by some unlawful act. So, where’s the obstruction?”

  “You’ve done your reading.”

  “I’m a teacher.”

  Lanza held up the flash drive. “What are you asking me to do with this information?”

  “You have resources. You could conduct your own investigation.”

  Lanza was thoughtful. “We could. But understand … our justice system is more quick and efficient than the other one. You might not like the outcome.”

  “I can’t trust the police.”

  “You have your prosecutor friend.”

  “I don’t trust him either. I mean, now. I’m not talking about our investigation. I … I made a mistake.” Lucy looked away.

  “Tell me.”

  “I got too close to him.”

  “And?”

  “And, I discovered he’d kept something back from me. That he’d had an affair with a female detective—the one who keeps pushing. The one who is convinced Jack was corrupt.”

  “When was the affair?”

  “Back in ’05. Before Jack’s murder.”

  Lanza didn’t say anything. He watched her with a gravely inquiring expression.

  Waiting.

  Lucy felt her face flush. She stumbled on. “The point is, he didn’t tell me. He knew how I felt about her. He knew she’d judged the case right from the beginning. Judged Jack! He knew all that, and he knew I despised her, but he never told me that they’d had a relationship. Or that she was the reason his first wife left him.”

  “You slept with him.”

  Lucy sighed. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Did you tell him about me?”

  “No.”

  The old woman who had brought the wine appeared at the door. “They’re ready for you.”

  “Thank you, Stella,” Lanza replied. “Tell them we’ll be there in a moment.”

  The woman disappeared.

  “Tell who?” Lucy asked, alarmed. “Ready for what?”

  “The caterers. I’ve arranged a small dinner for us.”

  “Us?”

  “Just you and me, Lucinda. Relax.” He paused. “And, as for conducting an investigation, we have already begun.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In our line of work, we don’t own a lot of property. We own people. I didn’t own your husband, but I had to be sure that no one else did. Since you and I last met, I have reached out to our brother organizations on this side of the country and checked with our affiliates on the West Coast. We are now certain that your husband had no involvement with any of the other families.” He held up a hand before Lucy could reply. “I know, I know … you always knew that. But I had to be sure.” He rose from his seat. “Now, let’s go in to dinner. Leave your glass. They’ll have clean ones at the table.”

  Lanza led Lucy through a large living room, across a broad front foyer and into an enclosed dining room. One end of a long marble-topped table was set for two. An older gentleman, liveried in a cutaway steward’s jacket, stood waiting.

  “Angelo here is a good friend. He owns a very fine restaurant in Morristown.”

  Angelo held a chair for Lucy. “Signora, prego…”

  Feeling vaguely off-balance, Lucy took her seat.

  When they were settled, a plate of prosciutto-wrapped cantaloupe appeared, their water and wineglasses were filled, and Angelo withdrew.

  “Tell me the real reason you called,” Lanza said when they were alone. “It wasn’t only your issue with the prosecutor.”

  “You don’t miss much.”

  “A survival skill, Lucinda.”

  “Have you heard about the professor from Rutgers? The one who was murdered.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you read today’s Journal?”

  “No.”

  Lucy removed a torn newspaper page from her purse and passed it across the table. She sipped her wine, watching him scan the text. She could tell from his facial expression when he’d reached the pivotal passage. She continued:

  “As you see, Professor Clooney was at my house on the night he was murdered, and someone in the police leaked that to the press. I have a pretty good idea who it was, since Carla Scarlatti was one of the cops who came to visit me. The leaked information must have been like catnip to the reporter. Not only was Clooney’s body found in exactly the same place Jack’s body was found, but he was happy to highlight the fact that the crooked cop’s widow is mixed up in it somehow.” />
  “Why was Clooney at your house?”

  “That will take a while to explain. I’d rather come back to it.”

  “If you want my help, you’ll have to tell me everything. Everything that’s happened since I visited you.”

  “I will, but I want to tell it in a certain order.”

  “Fair enough. Begin.”

  “Do you have a laptop?”

  23

  Over the prosciutto e melone aperitivo, Lucy walked Lanza through Jack’s spreadsheet and the NICB report.

  Over the arancini di riso antipasto, she replayed Jack’s interview of Thomas Mulvaney.

  Over the Tuscan malfatti primo, she detailed her failed attempt to connect with Detective Trousdale, her subsequent alliance with Olivetti, the crime scene details she had gleaned from the police file, and Mulvaney’s prison yard murder. She told him about the visit from Detectives Geary and Scarlatti on the day after Clooney’s murder, and how Olivetti’s last-minute appearance had probably prevented her from being arrested for assaulting Scarlatti. And, because there was now no reason to hide anything, she told him about her blossoming relationship with Olivetti that was now on the rocks.

  “This insurance investigator … Kimball?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Does he know about our connection?”

  “No.”

  The secondo arrived. “Involtini di pesce spada con gamberi alla griglia,” Angelo proudly announced. “Buon appetito!”

  Lucy goggled the plates before her, laden with swordfish roulades and grilled prawns. “I’ll never eat all this,” she whispered to Lanza after the man withdrew.

  “Sample them. That’s all that’s expected.”

  They started to eat. After a moment, Lanza said, “You’ve left one thing out.”

  “Yes. Clooney.”

  “Tell me.”

  How do you tell a Mafia godfather about a paranormal experience?

  There was only one answer, Lucy decided. Jump right in.

  “My son Kevin was born with Jack’s memories.”

  Dominic Lanza sat back in his chair. He studied her face. He set down his knife and fork.

  “I’m listening.”

  She told him. Everything. He sat there, concentrating on her words, his food getting cold. Not once did he interrupt her.

  When she finished, he was silent.

  “You think I’m crazy.”

  “No. My uncle would have, but I don’t. I’ve read about these cases.”

  “Read about them? Why would you—?”

  “Why would a mobster be interested? This mobster,” he announced, with just a hint of satisfaction in his voice, “has a psych degree. It sometimes comes in useful.”

  “Forgive me. I guess I just never pictured a crime lord with a degree.”

  Lanza grinned. “What did you picture—Albert Anastasia?”

  “No, but—”

  “It’s true, the earlier generations arrived here with little education. They were often preyed upon by their own people. It was a constant fight just to survive. But they pulled themselves out of the gutter and made a life for themselves, and their children went to school. And in some cases the older generation hoped their children would not follow in their footsteps.”

  “But not in your case.”

  “My father didn’t want me in the business. Sent me to college.”

  “You and Michael.”

  “You need to get that Corleone shit out of your head.”

  “You’re in the business today. Running it.”

  “My father was killed. Shot by one of his capos. The guy had delusions of grandeur. My uncle was capo bastone at the time, but he was out of the country. Visiting family in Sicily. Two guys tried to take him out over there at the same time, but he got them first.”

  “So, you—?”

  “I had just started on a master’s degree. Got the call from my uncle. Went home and took care of it.” He smiled at her quizzical expression. “No, we didn’t ‘go to the mattresses.’ It wasn’t that complicated.”

  “That makes it even more puzzling to me.”

  “What?”

  “You’re well educated, you obviously have it in you to be kind to people—there’s Cowan, and Stella … and me—but look at what you do.”

  “Do you really want to have this conversation, Lucinda?”

  “Maybe we should, since we’re…”

  “Allies?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll hear some hard truths.”

  “I can take it.”

  “I’m sure you can. But that’s not what’s going on here. You’re telling yourself you’ve made a deal with the devil, and now you’re self-mutilating.”

  “Is that psychologist talk?”

  “Perhaps.” He hesitated. He seemed to be shaping what he would say next. “First of all, you need to understand that this is not Cavallieria Rusticana. If you think my world is all pride and ambition and vengeance and omertà, then you’re believing the myth. Some families are still caught up in the old ways, but not this one. This is the twenty-first century. The modern world requires a modern approach. To us, ‘Mafia’ is just a brand, and that brand is based on intimidation. To that we’ve added another dimension: Instead of oaths and rituals, we have taken a page from the security services. We operate on a ‘need to know’ basis. It’s a very effective business model.” He paused, tilting his head. “No, we’re not exactly welcome in café society—but you’d be surprised how many of the great and the good come to us for help with their dirty little secrets. We do favors … and we collect on them. The ancient Greeks had a saying: ‘The best, once corrupted, are the worst.’ I run a modern business, Lucinda, with investment advisers and tax specialists, and all the rest, and it’s a very successful one.”

  “With one difference.”

  “Yes. One difference. The threat of violence.”

  “Not just the threat.”

  “Sometimes we use force. But you knew that when you called me, didn’t you?”

  “I did. But it doesn’t make me feel comfortable.”

  “Life is violent. You know that better than most. In my business, violence is just part of our service sector. Nowadays, we find that it’s seldom needed.” Lanza leaned forward. “Tell me, what does everyone want in this life?”

  Lucy sat very still, pale, and thoughtful. “Love? Respect?”

  “Yes, and…?”

  “Money, I suppose.”

  “You suppose? This is America, the hallowed home of the individual. Anyone in America who says he doesn’t want all of those—love, respect, and money—is lying to himself. Even if a rich man acquired his wealth by swindling the faceless multitudes and ruining lives, as long as he doesn’t get caught Americans will admire him.”

  “It’s hard to get love and respect if you’re killing people.”

  “You’re sitting here, aren’t you?”

  Lucy blinked at him. She couldn’t think of an answer.

  Or you can’t face the answer, girl!

  “Our approach is supremely practical. Violence is an effective tool for creating power relationships and sustaining them. But as I said, despite the myths and the sensationalism of Hollywood movies, the truth is that, unlike our outdated counterparts in Italy, we seldom resort to violence. All that is required is the threat. It’s a rational strategy, and it works.”

  “How do you deal with guilt? You have families, wives, children … you can’t all be psychopaths.”

  “So now you want to have an academic conversation?”

  “Might be easier on my nerves.”

  “Okay … First off, we screen out psychopaths. Those people are only loyal to themselves.”

  “How do you screen them out? Kill them?”

  His mouth twisted into a half smile. “Sometimes. Consider it a public service. Does that help your nerves?” He pressed on without waiting for an answer. “Second, yes, guilt is always there. We treat it as a risk-management issue. I
t’s a threat to efficiency, and it can sometimes be a threat to security. But we’ve learned to deal with it.”

  “How?”

  “Guilt is backward looking, so we deal with it in advance.”

  “In advance?”

  “No action proceeds until every participant fully understands why it is required … understands that all other options have been tried and failed, or have been examined and rejected as impractical. Understands that we have no other choice.”

  “It sounds so callous.”

  “It is. But it is also the way the rest of the world works. It’s the way human nature works. Look at the armed forces. They go into Afghanistan, they go after a target, and they kill people. They have already dealt with guilt. They have already agreed that, faced with opposition, they will eliminate the enemy and they will know they had no choice.”

  “But they’re fighting terrorists!”

  “Yes. But the reasoning is no more valid than that of the terrorist. Those guys are saying the same thing—they’re saying, ‘I had no choice.’”

  “This all sounds … completely immoral.”

  “Not immoral, Lucinda—amoral. And it’s exactly how all of us deal with the bad things we do.”

  Lucy sat in silence for long seconds, her meal cold, wrestling with herself. Dominic Lanza was unlike anyone she had ever encountered—a man so dense with subterranean knowledge that he was at once both terrifying and deeply attractive.

  Despite everything she’d always believed, she was looking at him differently. Almost with affection.

  Almost … but not quite.

  She took a long breath. “Dominic?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why did you trust me with that?”

  “You came to me. You asked for my help, not knowing if you would be indebted to me forever. You made the hardest choice the widow of a murdered police officer could ever make. So I will trust you. And,” he added, “because you’ve never told your friend Olivetti about my visit. The fact that you are sitting at this table tells me everything I need to know.”

  “I might have told him.”

  Lanza’s expression made it clear he didn’t believe she had.

  “Okay,” she continued, “how do you know I won’t tell him now? How do you know I won’t tell him everything we’ve said?”