by Rachel Ford
It felt like a knife between his ribs. “I know, baby. I know. I…I don’t know what to say, except I’m sorry. And, I won’t do it again.”
She stood at arm’s length for a long moment, holding him in her gaze. “Alfred, if you say that, I need you to mean it.”
“God, Nance: I do. No more lies, no more secrets.”
She nodded now. “Okay.”
“Okay?” he repeated. “You mean…you forgive me?”
She shook her head at herself. “Of course I forgive you. Even when I’m pissed as hell at you…I always forgive you. Because I love you, baby.”
He pulled her to him again, this time for a long kiss that left them both breathless. “Please don’t go, Nance,” he whispered when it ended. He didn’t want her to go home tonight. He didn’t want her to go home ever. Not to her home, anyway. He wanted her to stay with him, now and always.
“Alright,” she said. “I won’t.”
Chapter Nineteen
Ray was almost as relieved, the taxman thought, to see Nancy as he had been. “I’m glad you could come back, Miss Abbot. I don’t think either of us would have survived your absence much longer – your Alfred there, because he’s been pining like a lovesick fool, and me because…well, he’s been pining like a lovesick fool.”
The taxman frowned at that, and she laughed. “Well, uh, do you need anything, Ray?”
“Nope. I’ll hit the hay when I need to, but I’m going to keep working for a while.”
“In that case,” Alfred offered, as nonchalantly as possible, “I think we’ll turn in. Got to be in to the office early tomorrow, and all that.”
The detective rolled his eyes, shooing them away. “Go. I’ve got work to do.”
They did, and for awhile anyway, Alfred forgot all about the case.
The next morning, though, it was at the forefront of his mind as he and Nance made breakfast. Ray was asleep on the sofa. He’d turned down the offer to be put up in the spare bedroom. “I don’t want to be any trouble. Just need a spot to crash, catch a few z’s.”
They had no idea when Lorina had actually turned in, and they didn’t want to wake him. So they worked and conversed quietly. Nance was scrambling eggs, and he was dicing onions and peppers. “What if nothing pans out? I mean, Ray’s got a bunch of leads, but what if none of them turn anything up?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I mean, there’s got to be something. He’s tracking half the Tomassi gang, and, of course, Kennedy and those cops. There’s got to be something we can find.”
“Yeah, but it’s not enough to find it. It’s not even enough to prove it now. We have to find evidence from 1940, something Ray can use when he goes back.”
She considered this. “We’ll figure something out, babe. Lorina’s a damned good detective.” She smiled at him now. “And he’s got the smartest tax analyst around on the case. Walton Kennedy doesn’t stand a chance.”
Alfred preened at her words. “And my queen of the nerds is on it,” he reminded her, invoking one of his earliest nicknames for her. “My beautiful, brilliant queen of the nerds.”
She flushed a little, rolling her eyes. But any retort she had planned was postponed as Ray’s voice reached them. “Is that fresh java?”
Alfred grinned. “It is. But…not quite as strong as you like it.”
The detective joined them a moment later. “If it’s coffee, I’ll drink it.”
“You want breakfast?” Nancy asked.
He glanced at what they were preparing. “If it’s no trouble, yeah.”
“It’s not. We made extra. We weren’t sure when you’d be up, but we thought we’d put it in the fridge.”
“Thanks.”
“Of course.”
“So, did you have any breakthroughs last night?” Alfred wondered, handing the detective a mug of coffee.
Ray took it, and pulled up a seat at the kitchen table. “Not really. I have a good idea, now, of the gang. I’d stake anything that Kennedy’s our guy. But proving it…” He shook his head. “That’s going to be the real kick in the head.”
“Well, what do we need to do?” Nancy wondered. “I mean, we know – at least, we think we know – that he was on the mob’s payroll. So how can we prove that?”
“We can try to pull bank records,” Alfred suggested.
“You’d need a warrant,” Lorina pointed out. “How are you going to get that, now?”
“Not only that, even if his bank is still around, and even if they’ve digitized their records, they won’t tell us much. There were no electronic transfers back then.”
“No what?” Ray asked her. The concept took a few minutes to fully explain, and he whistled when he understood. “Wow. All your dough, accessible at the push of a button? Seems awfully risky.”
“At least it leaves a trail,” Nance said. “We can track IP’s and find fraudsters that way. But that’s not going to help us with Kennedy. Someone would have walked in with physical money and walked out. No records, no way to track where it came from.”
“Sugar cookies.”
“That’s true,” Ray said. “But, still, we can analyze the data for patterns. We can see if there’s any correlation between deposits or dates. I can cross reference them to known Tomassi criminal activity.”
Analyzing data for patterns was a language Alfred understood well, and he nodded. “That makes sense. I’ll see if I can find anything.”
“What about the warrant? No judge is going to give you one for a case that old.”
“I might not need it. I’ve already been pulling investigations on the Tomassi family. There’s troves of data I haven’t tapped yet. I’d bet some of what we’re looking for is in those archives.”
Ray grinned. “So…instead of an active investigation, look at the work other people have already done?”
“Exactly.”
“Smart. I like it.”
“Alright,” Nancy nodded. “I think we have our plan, then. Ray, what do you need from us?”
“Nothing. As long as there’s food in the icebox, and your search engine machine still works, I’m good to go.”
Alfred threw himself into his work with a newfound sense of purpose. He was deep in the archives, tagging files that looked like they might be of interest, when a knock sounded at his doorway.
Justin was there, leaning cross-legged against the entryway. “Freddie,” he said, and there was a hint of amusement in his tone. “That keyboard do something to piss you off?”
“What?”
“Well, I mean, you’re hammering away at it like you got a score to settle, is all.”
“You know, Justin, I really have a lot of work to do,” the taxman sighed.
But Lyon ignored the massive hint, and stayed rooted to the spot. “So, did Nance have a good time in Hollywood?”
“Yup.”
“Good. That’s great. I mean, not every day you get invited to a movie set by one of the stars, am I right?” Now, Justin glanced askew at him. “But, how about you? How was your weekend?”
“Great. Fantastic.” He hoped his sarcasm would bring finality to the topic.
It didn’t. “I guess you and little Satan must have got good and acquainted, eh?”
That one actually hit a little too close to home, and Alfred frowned. “What?”
Justin laughed. “Sorry, man. I’m just picturing you, staying home, taking care of litter boxes for Nance’s cat, while she hangs with movie stars. That’s rough.” He shook his head. “Life’s a bitch sometimes, right? Well, I better get back to my own stuff. Busy, busy these days. Catch you later, Freddo.”
Alfred scowled at the empty air. He wasn’t, by nature, a violent man, but there were times when Lyon stoked the most primitive impulses of his person. He spared a moment to indulge the pleasant fantasy that played in his mind, of trading in his mild-mannered, law-abiding ways for long enough to adopt the persona of a hardened pugilist. He imagined his knuckles giving Justin a long-overdue lesson in civ
ility.
Then, sighing, he turned back to his spreadsheets, caging the beast for another day.
Chapter Twenty
It was late morning before Alfred found his smoking gun. It was a set of notes and files composed by Detective Isaac Boyle, the arresting officer in the failed Tomassi sting. The first entry was dated six months after Ray’s disappearance, and focused on gang activity.
There were one to two entries a week after that consistently, noting the comings and goings of various members of the Tomassi syndicate, until December 6th, 1941.
The day before the Pearl Harbor bombing, the taxman realized with a chill. He’d traveled through time in a very literal sense, but seeing Boyle’s notes – and that conspicuous silence – struck him. He felt connected to that particular point in history in a visceral way, unlike anything he’d known before, as if the man’s silence spoke volumes.
The file was quiet for a month after that. It picked up with a short note.
January 12. Stakeout of suspected Tomassi front property, Tiny’s Pub. No suspicious activity. Will be back.
There were a few more entries about Tiny’s Pub in the following days. Boyle had spotted a handful of roughs with known criminal ties, but nothing to directly link the place to the Tomassis. That, though, changed with an entry on the twenty-second of January.
7:28. M. Tomassi arrives.
7:42. W. K arrives.
7:51. W. K. leaves, bag in hand.
7:59. M. Tomassi leaves.
Alfred’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of those initials. W. K. He knew instinctively who that was: Walton Kennedy, the dirty IRS agent.
He skimmed through the rest of the notes. Boyle had recorded dozens of meetings between M. Tomassi – Mario Tomassi – and this mysterious W. K. He’d gotten his hands on Kennedy’s bank records, too. Like clockwork, large sums showed up in his bank the Thursday morning after each of those meetings.
The file ended with an entry from September second of the same year.
M. T. didn’t show. Neither did W. K. Either they’ve found a new rendezvous, or they know someone’s on to them.
Alfred wondered, vaguely, what had happened. He couldn’t remember what came of Boyle. Ray had tracked down everything he could on all the principle players, but there were so many that they became something of a blur in the taxman’s mind.
Still, it didn’t matter particularly. Boyle had figured out the rendezvous. He’d figured out when they were meeting. And though the dates he recorded happened after Ray vanished, he’d pulled years of bank records. They could extrapolate the more contemporary meetings from that data.
Mission accomplished. Smiling to himself, the taxman headed to the breakroom for a refill of coffee. He’d probably hit his limit for the day, but, then again, his brain had been in overdrive all morning. It deserved a reward for a job well done.
He’d just poured a cup and was savoring the aroma of fresh coffee when a voice accosted him. “Alfred?”
He cringed. “Greg.”
“Hey, how’s it going?”
“Fine.”
“Good. Listen, we’re talking about going out to lunch again. You want to come with?”
Alfred fixed the other man with an icy glance. He knew well enough that Greg was asking out of some misguided sense of safety in numbers. He assumed that Justin’s behavior would improve with more witnesses.
He was new, so the taxman could forgive his naiveté. But Alfred was not, and he knew there was only one way to handle a critter like Justin Lyon.
So, measuredly, he set down his mug of coffee and crossed his arms. “No, Greg. I do not want to go out to lunch. I have too much work today. Thank you.”
Unfolding his arms and retrieving his mug of coffee, he shrugged. “It’s that easy.”
Greg blinked. “Uh…”
He didn’t stay to explain his point. It was the guru’s job to dispense wisdom, and the pupil’s to absorb it, if they were worthy.
Alfred had just settled back into his seat, sipping his coffee contentedly, when he heard a knock outside the door an office over. His ears perked up as Greg’s voice, low and timid, asked, “Justin?”
“Greg,” the other man effused. “So, you make up your mind where we’re going? The sushi place with the cute little waitresses, or the Greek place with that hottie of a hostess?”
“No, Justin,” came the engineer’s reply, his tone shaking but growing stronger with each word. “I do not want to go out to lunch.”
“What?”
“I have too much work today. Thank you.”
Then, footsteps sounded, even as Justin called, “Wait, what? I thought you said you were free?” A moment later, Greg Baker passed by, a mask of relief across his features.
Alfred flashed him a thumb’s up as he went, and the engineer smiled gratefully. The taxman returned to his work, mentally patting himself on the back for the second of two good deeds he’d done that day.
His self-congratulations were a little premature, though. Not long after, Justin decided to prove the adage that no good deed goes unpunished by reappearing in his doorway. “Freddo.”
Grimacing, he answered, “Justin.”
“Hey, I was thinking of getting some Greek food. Greg was supposed to go with me, but he was too busy.” Now, the other analyst pulled a face. “But, not too busy to go with the other guys from networking.
“Anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to go?”
“As much as I appreciate the afterthought,” Alfred replied, “I’ve got a lunch date with Nance.”
“Oh.” Justin blinked, surprised, it seemed, to have been turned down. “Oh. Cool.” He turned away, muttering, “I guess I’m chopped liver today.”
Alfred snorted at the preposterousness of such a notion. “Chopped liver’s got a purpose.”
“What?”
“Enjoy your lunch.”
Alfred’s hunch was borne out by Ray Lorina’s excitement. “You got him, taxman. This is perfect. This is gold.”
Nance beamed at him, and he flushed. There was something about seeing pride for him in her eyes that made Alfred feel ten feet tall and bulletproof.
The detective continued, seeming not to notice the exchange of glances happening around him, “So that’s why Boyle bought it, eh?”
“Wait, what?” Alfred asked. He’d only been half listening, lost in Nancy’s gaze as he was.
“Boyle. A couple of hatchet men zotzed him that September.” He glanced between the printouts Alfred had brought home, and the notes he’d made the day before. “Two days after that last entry, actually. No one was ever arrested, there were no ties to organized crime. They figured he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“So…if Boyle was investigating Kennedy, he must not have been dirty after all,” Nancy mused.
The taxman considered this for a moment. “But he was going to arrest Ray.”
“He must have thought I was the dirty cop,” Lorina decided. “But, I mean, these notes are clear: he hadn’t given up on bringing the Tomassis down. And he was building a helluva case against Kennedy.”
“So Boyle thought you were dirty,” Nance surmised. “But when he figured out that Kennedy was actually the crook, they iced him?”
“Looks that way, doesn’t it?”
Chapter Twenty-One
“No,” Lorina said, shaking his head. “No, this will never work. I can’t do it.”
Alfred sighed and Nancy crossed her arms. “You said you needed a new look.”
“A new look, sure. But I’ll scare Dori, if she sees me like this.”
“Look, there aren’t many options. You’d stand out like a sore thumb as a blond. I’m not a plastic surgeon, so facial reconstruction is out. I’m not a wizard, so I can’t transform you into something else. The best I can do is lighten your hair.”
Lorina frowned at her sarcasm. “But a ginger? Like I’m some kind of damned Irishman?”
“No one will recognize you. Especiall
y with the fake mustache.”
He shivered. “God, no. My own mother wouldn’t recognize me.”
“That is the point of a disguise…”
“No one’s going to recognize any of us,” Alfred put in. That was true enough. She’d managed to throw together some very convincing and era appropriate disguises, drawing on her cosplay supplies and a quick run to the vintage shop downtown.
Lorina scowled at his reflection, at the now-red hair and the thin mustache Nancy had pasted onto his face. “Well, I’m sure as hell no Clarke Gable. But we’re two shakes of a lamb’s tail away from solving this thing. So, let’s get it over with.”
Nance and Alfred exchanged relieved glances, and, before the detective could change his mind again, she grabbed the spacetime field generator. “Alright. Here goes.”
A flash of light and a moment later, they stood in a comfortable if modestly furnished room. A young woman sat on a loveseat a few steps away, and she leapt to her feet at their arrival, the knitting needles and yarn she’d been working with flying to the side. “Oh my God.”
Ray closed the distance between them in a flash, wrapping the woman in his arms. “Dori, oh my Dori.”
He was rewarded for his efforts with a firm back hand, as the young woman scrambled away. “Who do you think…” She froze, though, recognition replacing the horror. “Oh my God,” she repeated. “Ray?”
“It’s me, Dori.”
This time, she fell into his arms, sobs catching in her throat; and he wrapped her in a kiss so passionate he nearly swept her legs out from under her.
Alfred glanced at his shoes, as if the carpet underfoot was the most fascinating thing in the world.
He didn’t look up until he heard the woman – Dori – ask, “How did you get here? Oh, Ray: I thought they took you for a one-way ride.” She was still in the detective’s arms, her eyes glistening with tears of relief.
“No, darling, I’m okay. These folks, they got me to safety.”
Now, she glanced at him and Nancy. “But…how did you…do that? Appear here, like that? How’d you get past the detectives outside? They’ve been staking this place out for days, ever since you escaped.”
