Miss Evans broke from the circle, came down the walkway, and met the man halfway. He opened his arms and she stepped into his embrace. Viero saw her shoulders shaking as she cried, and the man turned up her face, thumbing away her tears before pressing his lips to her forehead. There was a tenderness and synchronicity in their togetherness that spoke of a deep, abiding love.
Feeling himself a voyeur, Viero deliberately looked away. He heard the ticking of his car engine, above it the whispers and sobs of the mourners. They were stepping away from the grave, the hippie grandmother leaning on her husband’s arm. As they cut across to the walkway, Miss Evans’ stepfather came forward to shake the newcomer’s hand. They spoke quietly, and then the man turned Miss Evans toward the Town Car.
The driver of the Lincoln looked to be about seventy. He saw the couple approaching and walked around to open the rear passenger door. The man had his arm about Miss Evans’ waist. He assisted her into the backseat, and then, before climbing in beside her, he laid one hand flat on the roof and looked directly at Viero.
The stare was neither challenging nor offensive. He was merely letting Viero know he was aware of his presence. At Viero’s nod he inclined his head slightly, and then ducked inside. The chauffeur closed the door and went around to the driver’s side. Viero made a note of the license plate.
Back in his office Vireo ran the plate. The Lincoln was owned by a corporation, L&M Enterprises, a Boca address. The president of the corporation was listed as Louis Morelli. The name meant nothing to Viero.
He sat at his desk with a half-eaten sandwich and a cold cup of coffee. Pedro had been dead two days before the police questioned potential witnesses at the strip mall, but their stories were jumbled. One drunk swore a swat team had rushed the building; another spoke of federales. A woman who had been pulling into the parking lot had seen a Jeep. No other vehicles: one Jeep, which discounted the SWAT team theory. The damnedest thing was that the computers controlling the lights in the strip mall had failed, leaving half the plaza blacked out on a stormy night. This malfunction would deny them a credible witness.
Viero’s only clue was the fact that Morales was sheltering Emilio. This led to the assumption that he had been killed because of his charity. But Emilio had vanished, and until or unless they found him, Viero would have no answers.
As he went over his reports, his mind kept flitting back to the touching image of Miss Evans and her boyfriend. Something was bothering him, and he searched his notes for the name of the hotel she worked for: the Walker. A quick phone call confirmed that the South Beach landmark had recently been taken over by L&M Enterprises.
Miss Evans clearly loved her nephew, spelling the hippie grandparents at the hospital that first, critical week. Highly doubtful of Emilio making an appearance, the sheriff had, nevertheless, assigned a deputy to Joey Carmichael’s room. All visitors had to sign in.
Viero didn’t have this list, and he called the cop who had coordinated this duty with the sheriff’s office. She said, “I have the list. I’ll bring it over. But I’ll tell you, there weren’t too many visitors. Mr. Carmichael—that’s the grandfather—had his pastor come and pray with a couple of women from his church.”
“What about Tara Evans? Did she have any visitors?”
“Her mother—”
“I’m looking for personal friends … boyfriends—”
“Oh yeah, a man did come.” She paused, thumbing through papers, then said, “Here it is: Victor DeAngelis. He visited one night, gave her a big hug; brought the kid a teddy bear.”
Viero hung up, logged onto his computer. He got hits on DeAngelis. A one-time felon, four years for armed robbery, twenty-five years ago. DeAngelis had served his sentence at Angola State Pen in Louisiana. He was listed as a longtime associate of one Louis Morelli. Last known address: Highland Beach, Florida.
Morelli had no criminal record, but when Viero switched to his Internet search engines, he realized it wasn’t for lack of trying. Louis Morelli had been accused and implicated in all sorts of rackets and was considered the de facto head of the Morelli crime family in New Orleans. More recent reports said he was retired from his criminal enterprise and living in Delray Beach.
Viero went back to his notes, called the officer who had been on duty the night Joey Carmichael recalled what had happened to his baby sister. The officer’s name was Linda. Viero asked if she remembered who had called her, and she said, “Sure, it was the aunt, Tara Evans. She was all choked up, said Joey told her his mother gave Rosa medicine, and when she didn’t wake up, Emilio took her to Mama Maria’s house and put her in the flowers.”
Viero thanked her and rang off. He wondered if Joey Carmichael had ever talked. From what he had seen, the kid was traumatized. Viero had a feeling it was Emilio who had talked and paid the ultimate price for it. Suddenly he felt sure he had solved the riddle, and he sat there, drumming his fingers on his desk.
He had no proof, of course; just theories, speculation. He doubted he would ever have proof. He glanced at his computer screen. The FBI had gone after Morelli with a vengeance and had never convicted him of anything. Viero decided to call the Bureau, get their personal take on Mr. Morelli.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Rescuing Tara in the cemetery, Louie had spirited her off to the Stella di Mare, spending the next thirty-six hours at sea. But it was Louie’s misfortune that little Rosa had been buried during the week between Christmas and New Year’s because he had a house full of relatives, most of them Angie’s, and he’d forgotten all about them.
Angie had not forgotten; nor, apparently, had Stella. Both women were cold to him, but Stella’s snub hurt worse than Angie’s. He cornered her outside the nursery, drawing her away from the door and saying, “Why are you sore with me, princess?”
“You should have been here, Daddy.”
Stella was slender and small-breasted, lithe as a ballerina. She’d never wanted implants, and Louie adored her for this. She had glossy black hair and inky black eyes, fringed with sooty lashes. She gave him a snooty look, and he set his hand on her arm. “I’m here now, baby.”
“Oh, Daddy,” she said, her tough façade crumbling. She was his little girl, had never wanted for anything. But she was a wife now too, and a mother. And she was mad at Louie—Furious. Tossing her head, she said, “I don’t like the way you’re treating Mom.”
He flinched. “That’s not your business.”
“I disagree, Daddy.” She jutted her chin. “I’m a married woman now. How would you feel about Johnny if you learned he was cheating on me?”
Louie already hated Johnny. One wrong move and he would kill him. He said, “Let’s keep you out of this, Princess. I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to concern yourself with my relationship with your mother. We’ve been married a long time—”
“Mom told me you’re cheating on her with a girl who works for you at that hotel in South Beach.”
“Your mother dared—” He was steaming mad, furious with Angie for involving Stella.
“Don’t be angry with mom. It’s your fault. Oh Daddy … how could you? When you cheat on Mom, you cheat on all of us, me and Isabella—”
“Baby, I’m not—”
“Don’t lie to me, Daddy. Mom told me … you used to have a girlfriend in New Orleans—and now you’ve got this girl in Miami: Some cheap slut who thinks nothing about sleeping with my father. Oh, Daddy, why? You love mom, don’t you? You belong to us. I always thought you were so good, so perfect—I didn’t know—”
“Baby, nobody’s perfect. It has nothing to do with your mother or you … Come on, now, Princess, don’t cry. Your mother shouldn’t have told you these things.”
Turning away from him, Stella began to sob. “Daddy, you’re breaking my heart.”
* * *
That evening Louie and Angie exchanged heated words. L
ouie was enraged Angie had involved Stella, but she made a brilliant play. “Stella sees how you treat me,” she said. “And she disapproves. What daughter wouldn’t?” Then she said the words that made Louie see red. “If I divorce you, Stella will never forgive you.”
Louie wanted to hit her. Instead, he jammed his balled fists into his pockets. “Do you want a divorce?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Then why speak of it? After all these years—”
“Because you’re in love with this girl, this Tara.” He looked up as she said Tara’s name, his eyes narrowing. She sniffled. “Don’t think I don’t know it.” When Louie did not reply, Angie said, “You can’t even deny it.”
“Angie, I’m tired. Do we have to go through this? What do you want? Do you want me to
leave? I will. One more fucking word and I will leave.”
Angie dabbed at her eyes with tissue. She was crying, but resolute, facing him with determination. “I’ll tell you what I want, Louie. I want it to stop.”
He turned toward his bedroom. “Good night, Angie.”
She dogged his heels, following him to the door. “I want it to stop, Louie.”
He paused, hand on his doorknob. The murderous look in his eyes made her falter and step back. But she was not afraid of him. “In all these years I’ve never asked you for anything,” she said. “But I’m asking you for this. Do it, if not for me, then for your children and grandchildren.”
* * *
He waited a day, brooding, saw the hopeless of it all. Would Angie leave him? He doubted it, but Stella, daddy’s precious darling, could he risk her displeasure, her disdain? Knowing he could not, he drove to Miami and shattered Tara’s world. Louie told himself that he did it for Stella. But mostly he did it for Angie because they had a life together, a family, and because she was right: he had fallen in love with Tara. He tried to explain this to her, breaking her heart while declaring his love. She stared at him, too stunned to even cry. In the end, she whispered, “Do what you have to do, Louie.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
She was like a zombie at her desk the morning after Louie stabbed her in the heart: New Year’s Eve, of all days. She had arrived pale and shaky, eyes swollen like golf-balls. Lina took one look at her and said, “What happened?”
“I can’t talk about it.”
She couldn’t talk about it with Victor either, choked up as soon as she heard his voice on the phone. Victor said, “Hey, doll, he’s suffering too. I’ve never seen him with any woman the way he was with you.”
She started to cry, and Victor said, “Listen, I’ve got to say this. He wants you to stay in the condo for as long as you like. He doesn’t want you rushing out and trying to prove anything, ending up in some dump. If you need money, or anything else, you are to call me. Capisce?”
“God, Victor, I’m going to miss you.”
“Me too, doll. As far as I’m concerned, you’re tops.”
The headache started at noon, forced her to scale back her ambitions. Still, it was New Year’s Eve and the Walker was buzzing. It was almost nine by the time she left work. She started feeling woozy in the car, thanked God she had only a few blocks to drive. The streets were a mess, thronged with pedestrians and traffic, bumper to bumper on account of the holiday. South Beach put on a big bash, replete with fireworks, not that Tara planned on watching them. By the time she pulled into her slot in Venezia’s garage, she was dizzy. She dragged herself into the building, met Nathan in the lobby. Wheeling a small bag, Nathan wore a black cashmere jacket over a tan sweater. She looked at him. “Were you somewhere cold?”
He smiled. “Paris.”
“Paris, at Christmas. How lovely. Was it fun?”
“It was work.” He pressed the button for their floor, regarding her thoughtfully. “What’s wrong with you? Are you ill?”
Her eyes flooded with tears. “Do I look that bad?” At his nod, she drew a ragged breath and said, “Louie broke up with me.”
His eyes flashed surprise; he was too stunned to comment. When the elevator arrived, he took her elbow, guiding her into the car. Tara leaned weakly against the wall, gripping the railing. Studying her, Nathan said, “If Louie left you, it is not because he doesn’t love you.”
“No,” she said. “He left me because he loves me. His wife—”
“You don’t have to explain. It’s none of my business.”
The elevator’s sudden ascent made her head float. Tara was wobbly as she got off, fumbling for her keys. Nathan said, “Christ,” and took the keys from her hand, unlocking her door. She stumbled on the threshold, started crumbling, and he scooped her into his arms, lifting her easily. He carried her to the couch and laid her down, smoothing her skirt over her thighs. She attempted to apologize and Nathan said, “Shush,” pressing his fingers to her mouth. “Lie still.”
She was too weak to move. Her head was buzzing. Nathan flicked on lights, walked to Louie’s wet bar, picking through the bottles. Selecting Louie’s Presidente brandy, he dropped ice into a glass and poured. He came back to her, glass in hand, the smell of the brandy reminding her of Louie. She gazed up at him and said, “I can’t—I’m pregnant.”
His eyes widened. He stared at her, speechless, and then sat on the edge of the couch. Placing his hand on the back of her neck, he lifted her head. “Drink a little brandy,” he urged. “It won’t hurt you.”
She drank too much, coughing. Droplets spilled onto her blouse, and she recalled Louie’s bloodstained shirt, her hour of conception. Poor Nathan was staring at her. She said, “I’ve shocked you.”
He drank the rest of the brandy, set the glass on the coffee table. He said, “It takes a lot to shock me.” He regarded her almost clinically. “When did you last eat?”
“Yesterday, at lunch.”
“Do you intend to carry this baby full-term?”
Tara hadn’t fully acknowledged that she was pregnant until tonight. She was only a couple of days late, but she was already aware of the change in her body, knew without a doubt she was going to have a baby: Louie’s baby. Her eyes flashed. “Of course,” she said.
He smiled gently. “Then you had better eat something, don’t you think?”
She looked up at him and nodded. He placed a cool hand on her brow. “You look a little flushed.”
“I haven’t slept in two days.”
“We can’t have that now,” he said.
Nathan removed her sandals, his hands briefly cupping her feet. He drew a blanket over her legs, and propped a pillow beneath her head. Then he went into the kitchen and poked his head into the refrigerator. She heard him open the freezer. He said, “Victor’s got a couple of strips in here. Do you think you can handle a steak?”
He broiled the steaks, boiling rice on the stove and steaming a bag of frozen carrots. He poured her a glass of milk and served her at the dining-room table, helping her to the chair and cutting her meat into bite sized pieces. Watching her lift the fork to her mouth, he said, “I’m not much of a cook.”
Tara forced herself to swallow. “It’s not bad. I don’t have an appetite.”
Almost immediately, she began to feel better. A few more bites and her strength returned. She said, “Nathan, I’m so sorry. It’s New Year’s Eve. Do you have plans?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I don’t want to ruin your evening.”
He glanced at the clock, an hour before the New Year. “Actually, I was planning to be in bed by midnight.” His eyes came back to her, studying her. “When did this happen, Louie breaking off with you?”
“Last night. He came here … his wife—”
“Ah, so it’s a fresh hurt.”
She nodded, eyes welling with tears. Nathan said, “I’m sorry I asked.” He placed his steak knife across the top of his p
late, set down his fork. “What does Louie say about this baby? I can’t imagine that he’s pleased.” Her eyes dropped under his questioning gaze; she flushed. “Tara, does Louie know you are pregnant?”
“I didn’t really know for sure … I didn’t tell him.”
“I see. How far along are you?”
“Three weeks.”
“That’s not much,” said Nathan. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” She pressed a hand to her belly, flat beneath her palm: Louie’s baby. She closed her eyes. “I’m sure, Nathan. A woman knows.”
“Okay. Now the big question: how do you propose to keep a baby hidden from Louie Morelli?”
Chapter Fifty-Six
Bob Amante’s Italian restaurant was on Second Avenue in Deerfield Beach; a prime spot in the strip mall on the curve of A1A. Directly across the street was the Whales Rib, with more restaurants around the bend on A1A, bumper to bumper during the season and year-round on weekends.
Amante’s was a family place. Most nights Bob or his lovely wife was present, making the rounds of the tables or chatting up the familiar faces at the bar. Bob knew Louie well, and as soon as he saw him come in, he greeted him warmly. It was the second day of the New Year, a slow night for Bob. Four regulars were hunched at the bar, only a few tables occupied, with one large family dominating. Several patrons were dining curbside, but the night air was chill, the breeze whipping.
Nathan sat at a table for two. He faced the dining-room, with a view to the street. He watched Louie come in, gesturing to him, although Bob was already steering him Nathan’s way.
Louie wore a tan baseball jacket and navy trousers. He was due for a shave, five o’clock shadow on his jaw. He held out his hand to Nathan and said, facetiously. “You’re going to make me sit with my back to the room?”
Nathan half stood; shook his hand. “I got here first.”
Louie pulled back his chair and sat. The waiter came over, and Louie asked for a Peroni. Nathan was drinking Amerone. Louie said, “Did you have a good holiday?”
Stella di Mare (Louie Morelli) Page 27
