“But they can’t charge him for something he didn’t do,” I said unconvincingly.
She wagged her finger in my direction. “They can, and they did.”
I huffed out a sigh. “Sometimes I hate you.”
She chuckled. “You hate me when I tell you what you don’t want to hear. Just like with Vinnie. I told you he was a sick fuck, and you got mad at me and then disappeared. I didn’t see you for three months—until he started beating on you and you wanted someone to talk to. But I was right, huh?”
It was a turning point for me. The point in my life that I realized loving someone didn’t require that I accept their abusive behavior.
The thought of loving my father and not accepting his illicit acts—by denying them—began to make perfect sense. I wondered how I’d live with knowing exactly what Michael and my father were doing.
I slumped in my seat. “Yeah, I suppose so.”
“And you didn’t want to listen.”
“This is different.”
“I’m not being judgmental,” she said. “Really. Look at me. I’m with Cap. I’m no better off than you, that’s for sure.”
I looked at her, surprised that she’d made such a claim. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’m not going to deny what it is that he does. Or that one day, he might not come home.”
The thought of Michael not coming home was incomprehensible. My mind began to reel at the thought of accepting the truth about everything.
I swallowed hard. “Why would you say that?”
“He works with Michael. Michael’s a firearms broker, and—”
“What Cap and Michael do is legitimate,” I snapped back.
“Keep telling yourself that.” She let out a light laugh. “Michael found a loophole in the law. What he does is far from legitimate.”
The safe little world I had chosen to reside in had a foundation secured by my own denial. Now that I was slowly coming to accept the truth, the walls were crashing in around me.
“Why are you attacking him?” I asked, although I knew the answer. “And my father?” I shot her a shitty glare in hope that she’d stop. I’d had enough. I’d reached the breaking point. “Can you just give me some support?”
“I’m giving you a dose of reality,” she said. “You just don’t want to hear it.”
“It’s bullshit, and I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“It’s not. Cap works with Michael, and Michael works with your father. And your father is the godfather of the mob, who, coincidentally, has been charged with ordering the hit on a federal agent. Like it or not, those are all facts.”
I didn’t like it.
At all.
She had wadded up her words and shoved them down my throat. I was choking on them, and I didn’t like it.
My eyes began to itch. Then they welled with tears. My marriage to Michael was on hold and my father was in jail. According to my best friend, from here it wasn’t going to get any easier. I was on the verge of a meltdown and I had no idea of how to stop it.
I lowered my head.
I was on a burning plane, plummeting toward the earth. It wasn’t a matter of if or when; life, as I knew it, was going to end.
The only unknown was where the crash site was going to be.
Chapter Twenty-One
Michael
I’d never met Cap’s father; I’d only heard stories about him. While we were at war, the stories he told were of a warrior of a man who had a take-no-prisoners approach in his practice of law. From the presentation of the case to his courtroom antics, he was well-known. Those who knew him either feared him or respected him.
Sitting in his office, I couldn’t deny that he was an intimidating figure.
“Overzealous ATF agents crashing an engagement party? I’m already interested.” He tossed his pen on the desk and relaxed in his seat. “But I’ll need you to tell me everything you know, and I mean everything.”
He reminded me of Cap. Considering the size of his massive chest and bulging biceps, my guess was that the suit he was wearing was custom-made. His voice was deep and commanding—the type that strongly suggested a person listen when he spoke.
“I don’t know where to start.”
“What you say here stays here. Understand that. And the more I know, the greater his chances are of beating the charges against him.”
It was contrary to what the other attorney had told me, but then again, he’d been fired for being incompetent.
“I’ve got a question,” I said.
“Ask it.”
“If your client says he’s guilty, can you defend him?”
“It’s wordplay. If my client says ‘I killed that son of a bitch, he was fucking my wife,’ I can still defend him, I simply can’t tell the judge or jury he didn’t do it. I prepare my case to argue against the evidence the prosecution team presents, and nothing more. It isn’t so much whether my client is guilty, it’s a matter of if they can prove it or not.”
It made sense.
I took a deep breath, let the air escape from my lungs and began. “My business consists of buying large quantities of firearms and selling them as used, which requires no background checks or paperwork.”
He nodded as if he could care less.
“Through the course of my work, I was approached by a man who was purported to be the godfather of the mafia. He wanted to start a business relationship with me, and I refused.”
He chuckled. “He was pressing you for tax.”
“Agreed. At any rate, I refused. He came to me later with an issue he needed resolved. His son had been abducted, and his captors were threatening to kill him if a large ransom wasn’t paid. I agreed to attempt to rescue him for a cash lump sum payment.”
“How much?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does to me.”
“Half a million.”
He nodded. “Continue.”
“We saved the son—”
“We?”
“My employees and me.”
“Interesting,” he said. “Continue.”
“We saved the son and returned him to the family. Upon doing so, let’s just say I was met with open arms.”
“So you and the purported mob boss are on speaking terms.”
“Well,” I said, “I’m marrying his daughter.”
He coughed out a laugh. “Excuse me?”
“I was seeing his daughter at the time. He didn’t know I was seeing her, and I didn’t know he was her father.”
He looked at me as if my head was on fire. In some respects, I felt like it was.
“It’s been nothing short of a disaster. An on-again, off-again relationship that’s been filled with lies and deception. I think we’ve go the kinks worked out now, though. It’s a tough business to be in for both of us. She being the daughter of the mob boss and me being a firearms trafficker? It’s not easy.”
He shook his head lightly. “Jesus. What a disastrous mess. Continue, please.”
“Believe me, I know,” I said with a laugh. “Okay, saved the son, father’s appreciative, so, based on our success regarding the son, he offered a security detail to me and my men—”
“Back up,” he said. “You were seeing his daughter, and you weren’t aware that she was his daughter?”
My fists clenched in response to the question.
I relaxed, or at least attempted to. “That is correct.”
“And, at the time, he wasn’t aware that you were seeing her?”
“That is also correct.”
“But he knows now?”
I let out a sigh. “Also correct.”
“And it’s your intention to marry her?�
��
It was the first time I’d heard an outsider’s opinion of the situation I was in, and it stung.
“On the surface, it seems like a disaster, I know. But it’s not. At least that’s what I’m telling myself. I love the woman, and we’re engaged to be married, yes.”
He nodded slowly. “It was your engagement party.”
I recalled the horror in Terra’s eyes as they handcuffed her father. It was one of the many reasons I was hiring a competent attorney in the first place. “It was.”
“Continue.”
“As a gesture of appreciation, or due to my ability, he then offered me a job to provide a security detail for some shipments. For each successful shipment, I’d received fifty grand. The first two went great. Number three, not so much. It was a cigarette buy, and I felt it was a setup, so I challenged the seller. One thing led to another, and he pulled a gun on me.”
He leaned back in his oversize leather chair. “How’d it end?”
“Poorly.”
“Care to give details?”
I wasn’t about to tell him that Cap shot the ATF agent. For the sake of Agrioli’s defense, however, I needed to tell him at least a version of the truth.
“He was shot and killed.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Anyone charged with the crime?”
“No.”
He nodded, and then began scribbling on his notepad. Without looking up, he continued. “The body?”
“They found his head. As fate would have it, he was an ATF agent, and they identified him through the federal DNA database.”
He dropped his pen onto the pad and looked up. “His head?”
I nodded. “In the bottom of the Missouri River.”
“Oh.” His eyes went wide. “That head. That particular head made the national news, so I heard about it. Fisherman. Head wrapped in plastic. Teeth missing. Off duty. I’m with ya. Continue.”
“Upon finding out he was an ATF agent, the person in the family who set up the deal was approached. In doing so, he pulled a gun and threatened a member of the family. In response, he was shot and killed.”
He picked up the pen and alternated glances between his notepad and me. “Was the second deceased individual purported as being a made man?”
I gazed blankly through his office window. The active city beneath me was a simple reminder that the world was going to keep spinning regardless of the outcome.
I shifted my eyes toward him. “No,” I said, recalling what Sal had said. “An associate.”
“Has his head been found?”
I looked out the window. “No, and they won’t.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Allegedly, he was fed to some hungry hogs.”
“Hogs don’t digest teeth,” he said. “That could be a problem.”
“His teeth are elsewhere.” I shot him a reassuring look. “It won’t be a problem.”
He rocked back in his chair. “Continue.”
“That’s pretty much it.”
He glanced at his notes, and then looked at me. His pen dangled loosely from his fingertips. “As far as the deceased in your wake, that’s it? So far, at least?”
“Currently, yes.”
He nodded. “And one of these is the murder in question? As charged in the indictment?”
“The second one, yes. He was also an ATF agent. I’m assuming, and it’s only an assumption, that he was working with the first guy, and, collectively, they were investigating the alleged mafia boss.”
“But guy number two was consumed by a passel of even-toed ungulates, was he not?” he asked matter-of-factly.
I chuckled a light laugh. “He was.”
“And you indicated his teeth were elsewhere.”
“They are, yes.”
“You’re certain?”
I nodded. “Very.”
He set his pen aside. “I see you brought a notepad. Are you an avid note taker?”
“I am, yes.”
“Take notes if you must, but be careful of what you write down. Everything they find can be used as evidence. In a case like this, referring to memory is best.”
I tossed the notepad on the floor beside my chair. “Point taken.”
“My best advice. This is off the record, of course.”
“Understood.”
“Secure deceased agent number one’s teeth. Then, secure deceased agent number two’s teeth. Secure the weapons used in the crimes. Then, somehow, get the aforementioned evidence to me.”
“I’m not opposed to any of that, but out of curiosity, what makes this place more secure than any other?”
“If they’re disposed of, they can—and will—be found. At some point, they’ll be unearthed, dredged up, coughed up, something. Believe me. If they’re kept by a person close to the family, someone at some point in time will say something, and a search warrant will be issued, at which time they’ll be found. Whoever is in their possession will be charged—and convicted—of the crime.”
“The family is pretty tight-lipped. I doubt anyone will say anything—”
He returned a stern look and wagged his finger back and forth. “I believe there’s an informant in the family right now.”
His statement was without merit. “Why do you say that?” I asked.
“Guy number two was an associate. An associate is the friend of a made man, and said made man must vouch for his credibility and his honor. Someone vouched for guy number two, and my guess is in line with yours. Guy number two introduced guy number one to the family in the cigarette buy. But guy number two didn’t simply appear. He was brought in by a made man. You might want to give that some thought.”
If he was right, Vinnie the Fifth had some explaining to do. “I’ll look into that.”
“They’ve got the remains of agent number one, but not agent number two,” he said. “Through the course of your employ, did you have an opportunity to peruse crime scene number two?”
“I did.”
“Messy?”
“Not at all.”
“Our definitions of messy probably differ. Care to elaborate?”
“Sure,” I said. “He was sitting at a table. He was shot in the eye with a .45 caliber, and he just slumped forward. What little blood he lost was confined to the surface of the table, which was removed from the residence.”
“Skull fragments, brain matter—”
“The bullet entered his skull from an angle. It didn’t exit.”
He grinned. “So the crime scene was clean?”
“Spotless.”
He rubbed his hands together. “That makes it a tough—if not impossible—case to prove.”
“I was pretty sure if they didn’t have a body, they’d have a hell of a time proving murder.”
“Believe it or not, they don’t need a body. A puddle of blood is enough,” he said. “Evidence that alludes to the alleged victim not being able to escape the crime scene without dying is sufficient. The jury merely needs to believe that survival was improbable. Or, if prosecution produces a witness who says the victim walked in with four tough guys, and they walked out, but he didn’t? Anything that supports death as being the most probable of outcomes. Combine that with motive or a murder weapon, and that’s all they need.”
I was surprised, to say the least. “Shit. I had no idea.”
“I’ll find out if they’ve got a witness. But with no puddle of blood, no skull fragments, no murder weapon and no other hard evidence that supports the fact that he’s dead, a jury would be left to assume he’s alive.”
“So, you’ll take the case?”
“I will.”
“Odds?”
“Of what?” he asked.
“Acquittal.
”
“Acquittal is a judgment of not guilty for the accused crime. It’s my belief, if the information you’ve given is whole and accurate, that the charges against him will be dropped.”
“Dropped?”
He stood from his seat, and then nodded. “Like a hot rock.”
“If it goes to trial. Odds of conviction?” I asked.
He let out a light laugh. “Get me the teeth and the weapons. If you can make that happen, I’ll have him out of there and make sure he’s not rearrested—for this crime, at least.”
It sounded too good to be true, but based on his confidence, I couldn’t help but believe him.
The thought of Terra finding out any—or all—of the facts of the case were weighing heavily on me. Having the charges dropped was an assurance that the things I feared would never come to fruition.
“Now the tough part,” I said. “What’s the cost for your retainer?”
“I’m guessing Cap didn’t volunteer to call me, did he?”
“No, sir.”
“You coerced him?”
“I persuaded him, yes.”
“That, combined with your service, is retainer enough.”
“Pardon me?”
“When I found out about Cap’s involvement in Haditha, to say I was disappointed would be an understatement. We had some choice words and, as I’m sure you’re aware, haven’t spoken since. After I had some time to digest what happened there, I decided I was wrong in my original beliefs. I tried to talk to Cap about it, but he wouldn’t forgive me. Now we’re speaking again. It’s going to take some time, but at least there’s hope.”
Haditha wasn’t something I was willing to discuss. A now infamous marine battle that included the killing of many civilians—all of who were reportedly unarmed—was a sore subject with many, if not all, of the marines who were present during the massacre.
“I hope you two can work it out.” I extended my hand.
He shook my hand. “I’ll get with the US Attorney’s office post-haste, file a few motions and I’ll be in touch.”
The Game Changer Page 11
