by Molly Greene
When Gen reached for the photo, she knew. “It’s your wife, isn’t it, Vincenzo? Something happened to her.”
Vitelli turned. His face crumpled but he didn’t weep, he just walked to the table and stared at the photo.
“Where is she, Vincenzo? Did she pass away?”
That suggestion brought him back to life. He shook his head with more vigor than he’d shown since Gen walked in. “No,” he insisted.
“Then where is she?”
He dragged in some air, then took a pull on his tea. When he put the mug back down, he said, “She has been away visiting friends.”
“You looked absolutely devastated when you answered the door, Vincenzo. It’s got to be more than that.”
“I do not like being without her.”
Gen studied the woman in the picture. “When is she coming home?”
Vitelli’s head dropped forward as if it weighed a ton and he couldn’t bear the burden any longer.
“I don’t believe you, Vincenzo. I don’t believe much anyone has told me. I saw you with Zuccaro in the park. Then I saw Giampaolino, the guy who punched me, with Zuccaro’s appraiser and a man with a limp. I’m sure John and this other guy are involved somehow.”
Vitelli’s face snapped up at the news. “Who is this man with a limp that you speak of?” he asked.
“Angelo something. I don’t know his last name,” Gen replied. “I followed Giampaolino and John into the Italian Athletic Club. I was escorted out by a man who seemed like some kind of bigwig, and he told me his name was Angelo.”
“Describe this man.”
“Your age, but taller. He’s Italian, too, and he sounds like you. Sort of commanding, if you know what I mean. He favored his right leg a little, and his neck had that permanent sun-damaged kind of redness. There were patches of broken blood vessels across his cheeks.”
Understanding washed over Vitelli’s features. “So that is where he has been hiding.” As he stared at the wall, Gen could almost see his resolve strengthen. He fingered a bead on the rosary, then clutched it tighter.
“Who is he?” she asked.
Vitelli’s dropped his gaze to Gen. “A ghost who walks again.”
“Will you stop with the parables? He was real enough.”
Vitelli’s eyes flicked away to study his wife’s photograph as if he wanted to memorize every nuance of her face. His eyes softened. Whatever was going through his mind, it was apparent that once again, he wasn’t about to share.
“Okay, Vincenzo.” She stood. “If you are determined to handle this alone, I’ll leave you to it.” She shouldered her bag and turned toward the door, then halted, remembering the reason she’d actually come.
She pivoted halfway toward the old man, not far enough to look him in the eye, not direct enough to put him on the spot. “I know Luca is protecting you by keeping your secret. I know your wife is in trouble somewhere, and I’m betting this Angelo guy is somehow involved. And I also suspect somebody wants some kind of revenge, and you’re the target. And my gut tells me the Italian cops have made this a little too personal. I can’t figure out why, but I’m going to keep working on it.”
She didn’t really know much of anything, of course, but sometimes it takes a player to catch one. “You need help, Vitelli. You need to go to the cops.”
Then, without another word, she went back through the living room and let herself out.
* * *
But she didn’t go far. In fact, she didn’t go anywhere, just climbed into the car and buckled up and drove around the block, taking a page from Mack’s playbook.
And bingo, when she turned onto his street again there was Vitelli, striding down the sidewalk, heading south toward Saints Peter and Paul and the park.
She stayed back a couple of blocks and followed along, sliding into the curb and pretending to talk on the phone, then pulling out to move a few feet forward and returning to the curb again to let him increase his lead.
When they hit a more heavily trafficked street she panicked, unable to pull over and afraid he would see her, but he was focused on his destination and did not once glance behind.
They were two blocks from the athletic club and Vitelli was moving faster. On a hunch, Gen parked. Vitelli made the door and went in, and Gen leaped out and locked the sedan with the remote as she ran. She caught sight of Vitelli just as he was escorted back out, bookended by a pair of burly wiseguys.
Angelo trailed behind, wearing a self-satisfied half-smile. The duo tossed Vitelli forward like a sack of dog food. He fell to his knees on the sidewalk, but in seconds he was on his feet, spinning around with his hands fisted at his sides.
Unconcerned, Angelo leaned lazily against the wall of the building and held up a flat palm as Vitelli approached. Gen saw his lips move, and as they did Vitelli stopped dead, as if he’d reached the end of a rope and couldn’t break free.
Angelo laughed. He struck the inside of one elbow with the other hand, then his fist went up and he spat on the concrete at Vitelli’s feet. He stood there for another thirty seconds, silent, seeming to dare Vitelli to make a move. Gen was wondering what kept Vitelli rooted in place, but he finally turned away.
She hid her face, then ducked into a recessed storefront and pretended interest in the wares behind the glass. A dozen beats later she saw his reflection as he stalked past, fists still clenched, wearing an expression of murderous rage.
* * *
Gen called Oliver on her cell as she was driving home. “Livvie, I just left Vitelli in North Beach.”
“What did he have to say?”
“Not much. But he looks like a dead man and it has to do with his wife being gone. When I mentioned I met that guy Angelo at the athletic club, he made a beeline for the place and confronted him.”
“What did they say?”
“I was too far away to hear.”
“Isn’t there some kind of spy equipment you could get that would let you eavesdrop from a distance?”
Gen rolled her eyes but considered the possibility. There had to be, and she would look into it. “And if I did have this spy equipment, would I walk around with it in my purse? I’d have to drag a duffle bag after me everywhere I went.”
She could just imagine him wagging a finger at her when he said, “You know the boy scout motto. Now what’s this about his wife?”
“Apparently she’s away visiting friends. He had her rosary beads wrapped around his hand like it was a rope and he was drowning. I saw a picture of her with it–”
She stopped.
“What?”
“I’m such a dummy. She wouldn’t have gone on a trip without her rosary. So the question is, what happened to her?”
“And the answer is …”
Gen filled in the blanks. “What if somebody snatched her, took her against her will? Maybe the night Luca saw the argument at Vitelli’s, after they taped him to the chair. Maybe they took her because she was the most important thing to Vincenzo.”
“That’s pretty extreme,” Oliver replied. “I can’t imagine an old man would let his wife get dragged off as a hostage and not tell the police. She might have just forgotten to pack the beads, or left them behind to remind him of her. Have you thought of that?”
“Could be. But humor me. Let’s pretend they took her to encourage him to give up the coins.”
“But you have them. Why haven’t they come after you?”
“They have. I think that’s why they broke into my place.” Her eyebrows knit as she thought it through. “But only Luca and Vitelli actually know for sure that I have them. Nobody else knows they’re in my safe deposit box.”
“Maybe it’s not really about the coins at all,” Oliver said.
“Then what is it about? It seemed to begin with the kid and the coin and Vitelli and the pawn shop.”
“I don’t know. But you better find out before Luca or Vitelli cracks, and they discover for sure who’s really got the coins.”
Chapter Thirty-Two<
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Gen packed light. A couple pairs of cotton knit pants, socks, t-shirts to wear and to sleep in, a light jacket, a sweatshirt, and her trainers. She figured they wouldn’t be going out to eat so she wouldn’t need much else.
She decided to stop at the Bay Street Mall in Emeryville on the way and pick up a few books for Luca at Barnes & Noble. A peace offering. The idea sent her humming around the condo and made her rummage through the wine rack for a bottle of cabernet she’d been saving.
She left the city early in the afternoon to beat the Friday commuter traffic that often clogged the bridge. Mack said the fridge was stocked with everything they would need. He was working a case that had already taken him to East Bay, and he promised to be at the house by five. Five-thirty at the latest, he’d said.
The mall was teeming with teenagers who apparently didn’t have to attend school the long hours she’d been required to when she was their age. They spilled out of Gap and Banana Republic and Forever 21 and other trendy stores, and enough of them had crowded into Victoria’s Secret that she worried they were starting down that path just a little too young.
Her mother’s face popped into her head but she shunted it away, not wanting to review the lectures she’d been given. Gen and her sister hadn’t listened, so why should these girls.
And when had she turned into such a prude?
She tucked the bag of books beneath her arm and left the store, headed for the parking lot. While she walked, her thoughts scorched from Mack to the fact that she was staying in the country for two days and really looking forward to it.
The news would be a shock to almost anyone who knew her.
It was the sign for Caffe Duetto across the concourse that segued her thoughts to Italians and vendettas and coins. From there she meandered to Luca and how he was involved, then to a vision of him weeding Mack’s corn. And then she found herself considering the garage the day Mack had showed her around his sculpture workshop.
That’s what the human mind does, it loops together odd but somehow related memory strings. Gen had read somewhere that people entertain as many as seventy thousand thoughts a day. That amounted to fifty per minute, just under one every single second.
By the time she was back on the freeway she was thinking of Jimmy’s Camaro stored away under that tarp, and Mack’s offer to take her out for a drive in it, and at the same moment she noticed she’d taken the wrong ramp and was headed in the opposite direction from her destination.
She was thinking she’d need to take the next off ramp and get back on course, then her thoughts jumped back to Jimmy and she wished she could have known him.
That was when she saw the car.
She realized later that she probably wouldn’t have paid any attention if she hadn’t just been considering the Camaro’s important place in Mack’s world, parked there in his garage. It was serendipity. That’s how the gurus say we can draw what we want into our lives, just by conjuring up the image in our minds.
Apparently it worked.
One lane over and half a dozen cars ahead, there was a red Camaro. She’d have to try this positive visualization thing more often.
The classic was low to the road, with big beefy tires and an attitude to match. Gen gave the BMW some gas and approached the other vehicle, then hung back off its passenger side. For a flash she thought it might actually be Mack, driving the macho mobile that day instead of his truck.
But the chances of that were slim because he was on the job, and surely more than one cherry-hued Camaro traveled through East Bay. She brushed off the possibility and enjoyed the sighting as one of those happy coincidences that zip into your life when you least expect it.
Gen pegged its speed as they drove south, admiring the cool ride. She was thinking what a kick Mack would get out of the story when she told him about it tonight. But the driver turned his head just a skosh to check traffic to the side, and reality chased the glee away and left a chill in its place.
Damn. It was Mack’s car.
And that was Luca behind the wheel.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Gen was livid. The kid had crossed the line now, stealing a cherished vehicle from someone who’d been nothing but accommodating. Mack had plucked him off the street and given him a bed. He’d bought the boy new clothes, for heaven’s sake. He’d fed him, he’d kept him safe.
She amplified her pissed-off state with a review of everything Mackenzie Hackett had done to save the ungrateful boy’s ass, and ended by ticking off all the things he’d done not to deserve it. By the time the Camaro’s right blinker went on and he moved in front of her, she was prepared to give him more than just a piece of her mind.
His joy ride was about to end.
When Luca eased over one more lane, Gen saw the exit only sign in plenty of time to drop back and trail him down the ramp. She grabbed an old ball cap from the passenger seat, then pulled her hair out through the keyhole in the back and tugged the hat down low over her sunglasses.
Black BMWs were as common as pennies in this part of the world, so although she was mindful to maintain her distance, she wasn’t concerned Luca might think the car tooling along behind him belonged to her.
When they got wherever he was going, she’d call Mack and ask him what he wanted to do. After she ripped the kid a new one.
The Camaro hesitated at the intersection. Right, left, or across the street and back onto the freeway, those were the only options. But Luca seemed unsure, and idled for thirty seconds or so just short of the stop sign. He finally nosed the car to the right and merged into westbound traffic.
It wasn’t long before the scenery changed from strip malls to seedy commercial. It was as if they’d entered the land of the sprawling warehouse, and most of them looked deserted. A broken window yawned here and there, and she almost expected a tumbleweed or two to complete the ambience.
Lucky for her, there was just enough activity on the semi-deserted streets to keep him from being suspicious about the car pacing him two blocks back.
Where was the kid going?
The Camaro slowed, then stopped in the middle of the street. Gen angled to the curb and pulled out her phone. She was thumbing in Mack’s cell when he turned into the complex. She cancelled the call and tucked her phone into a pocket, then hid her purse beneath the passenger seat and climbed out of the car.
Luca had disappeared between the buildings by the time she’d sprinted up to where he’d turned. She looked around, trying to figure out why he had come here.
Each building in the group was two-story, with banks of big windows on the top level, the kind that jutted out at the bottom and into the room at the top when they were open. It reminded her of a 1950’s high school. She could imagine a sea of faces sneaking a peek at the sunshine outside when they should have been staring at the chalk board.
She stopped at the end of the wall and rolled her head around it.
A substantial parking lot anchored the interior, ringed by buildings identical to the one she was leaning against right now. The tarmac was pitted and old. White lines that once delineated each parking space were faded, almost nonexistent. The owner was not defying the trend in the rest of the neighborhood.
Litter fluttered across the lot and piled up against a cement block enclosure that housed enormous rolling trash bins. And the Camaro was there, parked in the shade of a gnarled old tree.
Gen headed for the car, assuming the boy was still behind the wheel. But as she approached she could see it was empty. Luca was hunched down by the end of the rubbish fort’s wall.
He was watching something.
She hung back to see what he would do, which was exactly nothing. It didn’t take long to decide she’d had enough.
Without a sound, she crept forward and snagged his shoulder, then pulled him to his feet and swung him around to face her. She had to look up to glare in his face.
“You little shit,” she hissed. “Do you even have a driver’s license?”
His eyes were huge. “Genny, I–”
“Cripes, Luca, do you know how much Mack loves that car? It belonged to his brother. If something happened to it, he’d be devastated. Why did you take it? How could you pay him back by stealing something he loves?”
“I had to–”
“Don’t you dare give me some lame-ass excuse.”
Luca grabbed her forearm and squeezed so tight it hurt. But it got her attention and made her shut up, and apparently that was the goal. He put a finger across his lips as she tried to wrench away, then pointed to the nearby building.
Gen relaxed and turned her head. And that’s when Carla came outside, stuck to Luciano like plastic wrap to a piece of cake.
Then they locked lips.
Gen had to admit she was surprised. Luciano had given her the impression he was immune to Carla’s charms. And considering Carla’s behavior with Mack, she’d figured the woman was flying solo. But females like her came on to everyone and everything, so in retrospect she probably should have expected it.
It was no big deal, really. If she’d been Mack’s partner it would have been impossible for her to keep her hands off him forever. And she could certainly understand the attraction. Luciano was a looker, too.
It took Gen a minute to pass from the novelty of them as a couple to curiosity about why they were here, and why Luca was watching. And how, if he’d been following them while she was following Luca, the Carabinieri hadn’t noticed their cherry-red tail.
Maybe they were too busy staring into each other’s eyes.
Gen turned away from the PDA and back to Luca, then marched him five steps in reverse until they were completely obscured behind the wall.
“Why are you watching the Italian cops?” she whispered.
He bit his lip, thinking so hard Gen could envision the wheels turning in his brain.
“The truth,” she said.
The kid sucked in about a football field’s worth of air. “Are you going to let me talk, or are you going to keep cutting me off?”
