Stella di Mare (Louie Morelli)

by Bellomo, Patricia

  He had vanquished his enemy, slitting Emilio’s throat after Nathan tortured him, making him tell the tragic tale of Rosa and Joey, and then beating him for it. Louie let him do it. He felt nothing but contempt for Emilio and nothing at all for Pedro, whose only crime was in sheltering his brother-in-law. But, for Louie, this was a personal vendetta; revenge for the innocent.

  Still, in the end he’d killed Emilio to put him out of his misery. Nathan had gone a little mad, breaking Emilio’s elbow and shattering his knee-caps. The ensuing screams had made them cringe, and when Emilio’s bowels let loose, they gagged. They’d carried him topside and laid him on the vinyl blanket where Nathan weighted his body, taunting Emilio by telling him he was going into the water alive. This is when Louie stepped in, using the Blackhawk blade Nathan had made him strap to his thigh. Emilio’s screams died on his lips, blood bubbling from his mouth as his severed windpipe sucked air.

  Red mist sprayed and Louie bounced back on his heels, bloodied knife in hand. He met the reproach in Nathan’s dark stare, like a predator that has been robbed of its prey. Then Nathan took the knife from Louie and punctured Emilio’s abdomen so trapped gas in the decomposing body would not cause it to surface. The stench was ungodly, making bile rise in the back of Louie’s throat. They each took a corner of the blanket, tossing Emilio overboard. The knife followed, along with Pedro’s keys and the gun that had been used to kill him and all other evidence, including the tarp. Then Victor climbed to the bridge and started the engine, and he and Gasper poured buckets of salt water on deck and Nathan mopped it clean.

  * * *

  Fog slowed them, swirling from the surface of the water in thick patches, so Victor navigated cautiously. Then the fog broke to reveal a cloudy, moonless night, stars veiled and ambiguous behind scattered banks of clouds. Fog and no fog, speeding up only to slow again; the trip back was excruciatingly long.

  As salt spray cascaded over the bow, Victor pulled back on the throttle and the Chris-Craft nosed its way into another patch of fog. He was reminded of the final scene in Key Largo when Bogart turns the boat to shore after killing the gangster played by Edward G. Robinson. The water was like that, inky black, the sky ferocious and scudded with clouds.

  Victor felt alone in the fog, and then he heard a man’s tread on the ladder and saw Louie step onto the bridge with a bottle of Canadian Club. Pouring a good two inches into Victor’s coffee mug, he said, “I thought you could use a drink.”

  Victor swallowed whiskey, feeling the familiar burn spread in his belly. “Thanks,” he said. “It’s damn cold out here.”

  There was a hard shine in Louie’s eyes. He was jacked from the kill—something Victor had seen before and recognized, even if the significance eluded him. “It’s a hell of a night to be out on the water, huh?” He poured more whiskey into Victor’s mug, and then took the mug from Victor and drank it. “Did you give Gasper money?”

  “Twelve hundred. I offered him his usual, but he understands this is a personal thing, and he was happy to do you the favor. He didn’t even want to take the dime, but I insisted he cover his car rental. In case you’re wondering, the rental is in Melody’s name. You remember Melody—”

  “I’m not likely to forget her.”

  Melody was an escort. Louie had never fooled with her, but Victor had. He said, “She showed Gasper a good time.”

  “I bet she did.” Louie sat on the narrow bench seat, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Jesus, Victor, you think of everything. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Now the warm glow wasn’t from the booze at all, but from a quick rush of pride. Victor inclined his head toward the cabin. “You think Nathan would have thrown him in alive?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think he wanted him to drown.”

  “Nathan’s invaluable, but his methods are … extreme.” This from someone who’d murdered two men tonight, one of them an innocent bystander, but Victor missed the irony. “Nathan has a special hatred for people who mess with kids. Watching his family get blown away fucked him up good.”

  “He told me terrorists stormed the restaurant, gunned everybody down.”

  “Hah. That’s not the half of it—they slaughtered people …women and children. Nathan could hear his mother screaming, begging. He’d gone to the john. When he came out, the massacre had started and he hid in a broom closet with an old man. The guy had a gun, but when one of the terrorists opened the door, he froze. Nathan took the gun and killed the terrorist. He was ten years old.”

  “Damn. Nathan never told me that part. And here I thought cracking jug-heads was tough training.” They were coming out of the fog. Victor could make out the barrier islands and the mangroves, and he adjusted his speed. “Won’t be long now.”

  “You’re a damn good captain.”

  “That’s from all those weekends shrimping with my old man. I was running boats before I could read.”

  “Your father was a tough son of a bitch.”

  Victor took another pull on his drink. He had a sudden thought, asking Louie what had become of Rosa. Louie said, “She was teething. Natalie gave her Vicodin to quiet her; the baby died of an overdose. Emilio buried her in the neighbor’s garden, beneath the tomato plants.”

  “Didn’t they have dogs—?”

  “He used skunk spray to camouflage the scent.”

  “Christ.” He slowed the boat even more, maneuvering around the mangroves. “At least Tara and her folks will know what happened.”

  “Yes.” Louie directed his gaze landward, focusing on the lights popping up out of the mist. He said, “At least I can give her that.”

  “It’s a beautiful thing you’ve got going with her, Lou. She’s nuts for you.”

  Louie gestured airily with one hand. “Who would have thought … at my age—?”

  “Love doesn’t know anything about age.”

  Louie got up and hugged Victor, planting a kiss on his cheek. “You know, Victor, you are just about the best friend a guy could ever hope to have.”

  Touched by Louie’s sentiment, Victor thought of his old man, dead these past ten years. Louie was right—his father had been tough. He hadn’t been too keen on Victor hanging with Louie, but from the minute he met him, Victor felt closer to him than he did to his old man. In all these years, Louie had never let him down, had always taken care of him.

  Victor located the inlet where the union boss’s vacation house was and steered the Chris-Craft toward home. Hearing the cabin door slide open, he saw Nathan step onto the deck. Looking up, Nathan spotted Victor and gave him a mock salute. Nathan had planned this mission with the dispassionate calm of a seasoned general, yet when Victor told him he would transfer payment to his account using “regular means,” Nathan’s calm turned deadly.

  Nathan was a man who got paid a lot of money to kill people. But he wouldn’t take a dime to help kill Emilio and his brother-in-law, and he was insulted Victor suggested he do so. Victor had had to come across with a heartfelt apology. Now, watching Nathan, it occurred to Victor that Louie wasn’t the only man on board who was in love with Tara Evans.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Slowly, Tara awoke. Louie stood in the doorway, the hall light silhouetting him. As soon as Tara stirred, Louie stepped into the bedroom, leaving the door ajar so that the light was filtered and his features blurred. He walked to the bed and stood, staring intently at her.

  His behavior was so unusual she came wide awake, bolting upright. “Louie,” she gasped, her eyes flickering to the digital clock—four-eighteen. “What … what are you doing? Are you all right?”

  She’d come home from work yesterday, excited to see Louie’s Mercedes in the parking garage, only to be disappointed to find a hastily scrawled note: “Don’t wait up.” She’d tried to, of course. She would do anything for Louie, deepe
r in love with him now than ever. He’d been so good to her, so sweet, providing hotel rooms in West Palm for Tara and her family, although Jerry and Pam rarely left the hospital, staying at Joey’s bedside round the clock.

  For days it was touch and go. It was five days before the doctors told them Joey would not be maimed or left brain damaged and two weeks before they predicted a full recovery, at least physically. During this time there was no sign of Rosa or Emilio, and Natalie was still not talking. In searching for Rosa, Tara had spent hours with strangers, canvassing Natalie’s Lake Worth neighborhood. But in the end she could do little more than pray.

  She hadn’t returned to her normal schedule until this week. Even then, Louie had said, “Are you sure you’re ready to go back to the hotel?”

  “I’ll go nuts if I don’t. I have to keep busy.”

  She’d hardly seen him at all during the crisis, but now he was here in her bedroom, smelling of salt and brine, overlaid with stale sweat and whiskey. Tara had never seen Louie un-groomed; she was shocked at the thick stubble on his jaw. She said, “Louie, are you drunk?”

  “Not drunk, baby, no.” He grasped her face between his hands, fingers slicing through her hair. Energy bounced off him in radioactive waves. He was on fire, his lips burning as he kissed her. Tara tasted whiskey.

  He tugged at the ribbons on her nightie, and she backed off, lifting it over her head. She sat naked on the bed, watched his hands go to his belt, unbuckling it. Desire stirred in her. He had made a slave of her, but he consistently and considerately pretended not to notice.

  This morning there was no pretense. He was going to fuck her without foreplay or the sweet nothings he liked to whisper. He was not even going to undress. He tumbled her down onto the bed, and she was suddenly apprehensive. She said, “Louie, what—?”

  He thrust into her. The cry on her lips was guttural and strange. This was not the tender lover of her seduction, the sweet romantic who had patiently and ardently won her heart. This man was without affection, a stranger. But her body recognized him, began to accommodate him immediately.

  He sensed her acquiescence, must have anticipated it. He pressed her to him in a strained embrace. “Love me, baby. Love me.”

  At the end, locked together, her pleasure exceeded his. He lay heavy against her. He was panting, his breath hot on her neck, his beard scraping her face. “Jesus,” he said. “That was a hell of a ride, baby. I worried I was too rough, but you loved it.”

  Disengaging himself with a groan, Louie reached over and snapped on the lamp. The warm glow of lamplight revealed the stranger, and Tara gasped at Louie’s wind-burned face and matted hair. His right hand was swollen and scraped, with dried blood in the creases of his knuckles. A silver-dollar sized bloodstain was centered above his heart, splatters and flecks of blood fanning out from it.

  Tara plucked worriedly at his shirt. She said, “Louie, you have blood on you.”

  “It’s okay, baby, it’s not mine.”

  This was not okay. Confused and more than a little frightened, Tara said, “Whose—”

  He shook his head; he was not going to answer. No matter whose blood it was, it was now deposited on her naked breasts in rusty streaks, transferred during their lovemaking. She looked down at herself with revulsion, and Louie smiled gently, extending his swollen hand. “Come on, baby. Let’s go get cleaned up.”

  * * *

  Victor had a feast going in the kitchen, bacon, eggs, sausage, Italian toast, sliced potatoes seasoned with peppers and onions, coffee and juice. Freshly shaved and smelling of Irish Spring, Gasper sat at the counter with a plate of food. He was shoveling it in like a starving man, pausing long enough to mumble hello.

  Tara had not met Gasper before. Victor introduced him as “our friend Gasper.” His brief nod was indifferent. Victor was another matter. He kissed her on the cheek and said, “I hope you’re hungry, doll.”

  “Not that hungry.” She had beat Louie out of the bathroom, wore her brown velour lounging pants. Damp tendrils curled about her face. She poured a mug of coffee, stirred in cream. On a dinner plate she dished two tablespoons of scrambled eggs and took a slice of bacon, and then Louie swept into the kitchen and, taking the plate from her hands, began heaping it with food. Tara sat at the table and watched him wolf it down.

  Gasper got up to go, and Louie walked him to the door, speaking quietly with him in the foyer. Tara stood at the kitchen sink washing the skillets. The sink faced the living room, gave view to the shipping lanes, where the water was roiling. Sheets of rain pelted the terrace, gusting against the glass door.

  Victor was nodding off at the counter. Louie set a hand on his back, telling him to “go get some rest.” Then he put his arms around Tara and nuzzled her neck. “Let’s go back to bed, baby.”

  She had ideas of going to work, but he would not hear of it, coaxing her into bed. She lay spooned against him, his arm encircling her. He dropped a kiss onto the back of her shoulder and said, “Sleeping with the boss gives you all the advantages.”

  Snuggled beneath the covers, Tara listened to the storm break over the city. Lightning flickered, followed by a loud crack of thunder. It was a perfect day to lie abed with her lover. She listened to Louie’s deep, even breathing. She assumed he was sleeping, but when she shifted, his arms tightened around her. He said, “Your sister killed Rosa.”

  Her blood froze, her breathing halted, everything crashing to stillness within her. She turned and looked at him. “Louie?”

  He told her that Natalie had drugged the baby, accidentally overdosing her. Emilio had buried her two doors down from their duplex, in the backyard of an older couple who lived in the home. Aghast at what he was telling her, Tara said, “Police and volunteers searched the neighborhood on foot—”

  “He buried her in the vegetable garden, beneath the tomato plants. Joey followed him and watched.”

  “Oh my God!”

  She lay there, sick at the thought. She knew what he was telling her, knew in her heart that he had found and killed Emilio. He’d come to her with Emilio’s blood on him, soaping the blood from her breasts in the shower. She didn’t know what she felt—gratitude, sorrow, awe, perhaps all three.

  She stared at him in stunned disbelief, her eyes bright with tears. He said, “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.” Then he told her that she could not reveal him as her source, thus confirming her suspicions.

  She moaned. “Louie, the baby … I can’t leave Rosa—”

  “You misunderstand. Go visit Joey … not tomorrow, but the day after. Then call the police and tell them he finally talked. Joey’s three years old, and they’ll never be able to correctly confirm what he said or didn’t say, but does it matter? Rosa can be found and given a proper burial.”

  He didn’t tell her he killed Emilio; nor would he ever. It hung between them, unspoken. Tara said, “Louie, do you want to talk about it?”

  “No. Not now, not ever.”

  He was touching her sexually, lifting away her clothes. Beneath the sheets she caressed him, amazed he wanted her again. This time he made love to her so tenderly she wept. He kissed the tears from her cheeks and drifted to sleep, and she lay in the crook of his arm and listened to the storm. She thought of Natalie and her sins, her treacherous lies protecting Emilio while her son fought for his life and her daughter lay buried in a neighbor’s vegetable patch. Of the two, Tara decided Natalie’s evil was greater. But Emilio had paid for his crimes with his life.

  Tara considered how Emilio might have died. She’d murdered him in her heart, time and again, in these past few weeks, and she could find no moral judgment to levy against her lover. In fact, she was secretly pleased. Not only had she sanctioned his murder, but she had consummated it with an act of love.

  She finally slept, Louie clinging to her and forcing her to rest. When she woke it was noon. Freshly
shaven, Louie was pulling on a pair of slacks and Victor was whistling in the living room. Outside, the rain continued to pound the terrace.

  Tara got up and went to the bathroom. She washed her face and brushed her teeth. Opening the top vanity drawer she removed her packet of birth control pills and looked stupidly at them. She hadn’t taken a pill in weeks, not since before New Orleans. Tara counted back to her last menses. She was not overdue, her stomach flat beneath her palm, and she put the pills away without taking one. She wondered how it was that she had come to such a decision and when.

  Chapter Fifty

  Victor said, “Doll, you need a Christmas tree.”

  The next thing Tara knew, she and Victor were sloshing through puddles at the Aventura Mall. She knew Victor was trying to cheer her up. She’d woken to a new day with the knowledge that her sister had killed her own daughter. As long as Rosa remained missing, Tara had held out hope, even though the police had forewarned that it might end badly.

  She’d broken down, finding comfort in Louie’s presence. He soothed her like a little girl, his arms providing strength. Afterward, Victor talked her into the outing. Selecting the tree in Macy’s, her spirits lifted, but in the car on the way home, her mood plummeted when Victor said, “Doll, I don’t know how much Lou explained about out little fishing trip last night.”

  She stiffened. “He didn’t explain much.”

  “Hmm. I didn’t think so. I’ve got to clarify some things.” She looked expectantly at him, and he gave her a reassuring wink. It was still raining in sheets, wipers going full speed. Victor cleared his throat. “Sometime, someday, maybe never, the police or Feds might connect Lou to you. When and if that happens, they might decide to ask questions, and you are going to have to remember that Lou and I were with you yesterday, from the time you came home from work. You can remember that, can’t you, doll?”

  Victor spoke to her like she was a kid. She was insulted. “Of course I can remember.”