A Tiger's Tale (A Call of the Wilde Mystery)

by Laura Morrigan

  Next, I tried looking up IntraCorp, the company to which the Mercedes AMG was registered. A nondescript website popped up. I navigated through the site for a few minutes, but could only ascertain that IntraCorp dealt with distribution of goods. Nothing more specific.

  A mewing cry made me look down.

  Voodoo stared up at me with wide blue kitten eyes then meowed again, clamped her claws on my bare shin, and began to scale Mount Grace.

  “Ouch!”

  I scooped her into my lap before her needlelike claws gained much purchase.

  Up!

  No. I encouraged her to settle down for a nap by giving her a few slow strokes and some gentle, calming thoughts.

  With a happy squeak, she began kneading and purring as she tottered around in a slow circle on my lap.

  Moss came up to give Voodoo a sniff and a lick before flopping down with a sigh.

  “She’s wearing you out, now, huh?”

  Tired, he agreed. Then raised his head and looked at me with droopy eyes and asked, Kitty?

  I’ve got her. Take a break, big guy.

  He let out a second, longer sigh and drifted off to sleep.

  I tried to think of another search I could do to divine the identity of the mysterious Yard Guy. But after a few minutes of staring at the laptop’s screen, I knew I was getting nowhere. There was no way my tired brain could fend off all the bliss and contentment floating through the air. I gave in, closed my laptop and my eyes, and leaned back, hoping inspiration would come to me if I relaxed.

  I was on the edge of sleep when my phone rang. I was so used to hearing the crazy ring tones Emma had programmed, the normal ring threw me off for a few seconds. I’m sure I sounded half asleep and confused when I finally managed to answer. Not that it mattered.

  A recorded voice announced the call’s origin. “Union Correctional Institution.”

  Suddenly, I was wide-awake. Who would be calling me from a high-security penitentiary?

  There was a pause, and I realized I had to press ONE to accept the call. I managed to bring up my keypad and hit the number.

  “Hello?”

  “Grace Wilde?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “This is Charles Sartori.”

  Sartori? The name was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

  “I’m sorry, who?”

  “You’re looking for a Brooke Ligner. I want to know why.” His tone was calm, almost conversational, but it carried the weight of someone who was used to having people do what they asked. Usually, this attitude would have earned Sartori an earful of dial tone, but I thought he might have useful information about Brooke and, I have to admit, I was curious.

  “Why do you care about Brooke?”

  “She’s my daughter.”

  Daughter?

  Brooke’s biological father was in prison? I was too surprised to comment, and after several seconds, Sartori asked, “Why are you looking for Brooke?”

  “I think something happened to her,” I told him, shaking off my shock.

  “What, exactly?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Don’t play games, Miss Wilde. My daughter is missing.”

  “You don’t think she ran away?”

  “No, I don’t. Brooke always contacts me when she leaves her mother’s house. I haven’t heard from her.”

  “Okay. To start with, I think she was kidnapped from where she worked. No one has seen her since last Wednesday.”

  Silence.

  “When’s the last time you talked to her?”

  He didn’t answer my question, instead saying, “Tomorrow morning, you will meet with my associates and tell them everything you know.”

  “I don’t know anything. Just that she’s gone.”

  “You know enough to be looking. My people will be in touch. You’ll be meeting them before noon.”

  Not a request.

  He hung up and I held the phone out and stared at it for several moments, as if it would offer an explanation for the bizarre turn my search for Brooke had just taken.

  How had I gone from calling it an early night to setting up a meeting with some felon’s “associates”?

  I opened my laptop, this time searching for Charles Sartori. After scanning a few results, I remembered who he was—one of the biggest mobsters to have ever moved into North Florida.

  Crap.

  CHAPTER 12

  I didn’t get much sleep. And not just because Voodoo had discovered the joys of attacking my feet at two o’clock in the morning.

  My head had been spinning with questions and theories. Did the fact that Brooke was the daughter of a made man play into her kidnapping? It seemed likely. But what about Bob Ligner? His violent temperament couldn’t be discounted. I’d debated calling Kai, but knew he’d be less than thrilled to learn of my planned rendezvous with the mob.

  I awoke bright and early certain of one thing.

  If I was going to meet up with gangsters, I needed to know who I was dealing with.

  I thought about asking Emma if she knew anything about Charles Sartori, but though my sister knew just about anyone who was anyone within a two-hundred-mile radius, I had a feeling Wes, who’d worked at the State Attorney’s Office before moving to Savannah, might know more.

  I tried his cell then his office, where his assistant, Claudio, informed me Wes was flying back from meeting with clients in Atlanta.

  “I can make sure he gets a message as soon as he lands,” Claudio offered. He had been working with Wes for a few years. I’d met him on a handful of occasions, and he knew how close I was to his boss. I wondered if he could help me out with a little four-one-one.

  “I was actually calling to get some information on a man by the name of Charles Sartori. I know he’s serving time at Union Correctional, but I was hoping to learn more.”

  I could hear computer keys clicking over the phone line.

  “Give me just a sec,” Claudio said. “Yep. Charles Angelino Sartori—doing time for fraud. Looks like he has been implicated in a lot of shady stuff, but nothing definitive.”

  “I heard he was some sort of mob boss.”

  “You heard right.”

  “Do you have any information on his known associates? People who work for him or with him?”

  “Let’s see . . . that might take a minute. Anyone specific?”

  “No. Just see if he has, you know, a right-hand man or something.”

  “I’ll get back to you as soon as I find something.”

  I thanked Claudio and hung up, hoping he would call me back before the meeting was set.

  I checked the time—just past seven.

  Waiting around to be summoned by criminals was not my idea of a relaxing morning. To take my mind off the prospect of the impending meeting, I decided to take Moss for a quick walk on the beach.

  As I’d hoped, my wolf-dog was much less concerned about Voodoo now that the kitten had become more energetic.

  Moss questioned me about the whereabouts of his kitten a few times as we walked along the water’s edge. I assured him everything was fine, and he eventually relaxed. He trusted me enough to let go of his worry, which was good, because I had no intention of attending my clandestine meeting without backup—and few things worked as well for backup as a giant, white wolf-dog.

  My phone rang just as Moss and I were walking up the steps to the condo.

  “Grace Wilde?”

  “Yes?”

  “I was told you would be available this morning for a meeting.”

  I didn’t bother to ask who I was talking to—I could almost hear the tune from The Godfather playing as he spoke.

  “I’m sure you were. Though I don’t believe I can tell you any more than I told your boss.”

  “Then it should be a brief discussion. I can have a car come for you or give you the address. Either way, we’ll be expecting you as soon as possible.”

  A car? Um—no. “The address will be fine, thank yo
u.”

  “Are you sure? It’s a bit out of the way.”

  No way was I getting picked up by the mob. How dumb did this guy think I was?

  “I’ll drive myself, if it’s all the same.”

  He gave me an address and I jotted it down on the back of a piece of junk mail. Once Moss had checked on Voodoo, we headed out the door. Thirty minutes later, I was no closer to meeting with the mob—because I was lost.

  Emma called just as I realized the road I’d been following was a dead end.

  “Hey, where are you?” she asked.

  “Lost north of nowhere, somewhere off Cedar Point Road.” I tried not to sound as rushed and nervous as I felt.

  “I assume that means you won’t be home anytime soon?”

  “Not likely. Why, what’s up?”

  “Oh, not much. I’d just walked in from the dojo when a man arrived with a strangely familiar-looking Doberman pinscher.”

  Jax.

  I’d forgotten my playdate appointment with Jake.

  “Crap. Tell Jake I’m sorry, but we’ll have to reschedule.”

  “I would, but he already left.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “He said he’d just gotten a call to go to a crime scene. I said it would be fine, but then I remembered something . . .”

  “Voodoo.” I wanted to bang my head on the steering wheel.

  “Is it okay to leave Jax here when I go to work or will he eat the kitten?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know. Let me call Sonja and see if she can take care of Jax for a little while.”

  I didn’t think Jax would hurt Voodoo on purpose, but I didn’t want to chance it. I negotiated a three-point turn while I made the call, grumbling to myself when she didn’t answer. I could think of only one other person who not only had experience handling large animals but also owed me a favor.

  I found the number and dialed as I headed back down the road.

  “Hey, beautiful.”

  “Hugh, are you busy right now?”

  “You know I always have time for you.”

  “Good, because I have a really big favor to ask.”

  “How big?”

  “About the size of a Doberman pinscher.”

  He chuckled. And after I explained the situation, he promised to pick up Jax at the condo.

  “Oh, and while you’re there, I’ve got a new kitten who needs her boosters. She’s probably pretty wormy, too.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thanks, Hugh.”

  “Not a problem. I owe you more than this for all the times you’ve helped me out. Have you learned anything else about Brooke? Ozeal says she hasn’t turned up.”

  “Some.” I spotted a street I’d missed the first time down the road and headed toward it, hoping I was finally on the right track. “Listen, I’ve got to run. Thanks again.”

  I called Emma back and gave her Hugh’s number so they could negotiate the exchange.

  “Are you still lost?” she asked.

  “Pretty much.”

  She sighed. “You know you have a GPS on your phone.”

  “I do?”

  Emma told me where to find the app and then said, “Don’t forget, we’re meeting the Realtor today. And I have a surprise for you, so don’t get hung up.”

  “I’ll do my best.” I could imagine what being hung up by the mob might entail.

  Moss growled from the backseat. My overactive imagination was making him wary.

  “It’s okay, big guy. I’ll let you know if there’s going to be a rumble.”

  He let out a doubtful snort.

  I had envisioned the meeting taking place in some remote warehouse or equally sinister place, so I was surprised when the GPS led me to a small, homey restaurant nestled along the edge of a large creek.

  Cooper’s Catch looked more like a fish camp than a Mafia den. Which, I suppose, was the point.

  I parked, and Moss and I traipsed over the crushed-oyster-shell lot to the rough, wood-clad structure. The sign on the door indicated that the restaurant was closed until eleven. I knocked, and within a few moments, the door creaked partly open. A tall man with dark hair and eyes peered at me.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m here to see . . .” I wasn’t sure who I was there to see. “Charles Sartori sent me.”

  With a subtle nod, he started to step back and open the door fully—then he caught sight of Moss.

  His eyes widened and he moved so that his body was partly shielded by the door. Then his brow furrowed and he scowled. I knew the look. I’d seen it countless times. He was afraid of dogs and that fear embarrassed him.

  “No dogs in the restaurant,” he snapped.

  “Understandable. But I’m not coming in without him.”

  His scowl deepened, but he finally nodded and ushered us in.

  The interior was a welcoming blend of fisherman’s cottage and sailor’s retreat. Exposed wood beams, warm, earth-tone walls, and hardwood floors gave the place an inviting glow. The back wall was composed entirely of windows, divided in the center by a set of French doors. Beyond the glass, a deck overlooked the water.

  Not surprisingly, we were led through the restaurant to the doors and onto the outside deck.

  Fine by me. It was a beautiful, mild day and I was far more comfortable out in the open than inside the restaurant—no matter how charming.

  I chose a table close to the water and sat, like I’d seen in spy movies, facing the French doors.

  Moss’s attention was caught by something in the water, and I peered through the railing to see a large alligator cruise by.

  Great. I’d led us to the disposal site for the Jacksonville Mafia.

  I shook off the thought, reminding myself I was there to help a man find his daughter. For all I knew, Charles Sartori had gone straight. Gotten into the restaurant business and his associates were a butcher, a baker, and a candlestick maker.

  Well, I could hope, right?

  Just then my phone began playing a salsa tune. I answered, recognizing Wes’s office number.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to get back to you any sooner, Grace,” Claudio said. “It’s like the minute Wes leaves town, everyone calls wanting something. Oh! I didn’t mean you, sweetie.”

  “I know. I appreciate you looking into it for me.”

  “Not a problem—really. You want the quick-and-dirty version or an e-mail with detailed documents, or both?”

  I glanced at the closed doors leading into the restaurant. “Let’s go with quick and dirty. You can send the rest later.”

  “Okay. First up—Charles Sartori. Very traditional. I found a lot about him; you can look over all of it in the e-mail file. Basically, he’s old school. ‘Honor among thieves’ sort of thing. When he went to jail four years ago, Frank Ferretto took over running the business. Ferretto has worked for Sartori forever. Sharp when it comes to business—he’s the right-hand man you asked about.”

  My gaze was glued to the doors. “Okay, anyone else?”

  “A couple of names popped up, but the scariest is a guy named Vincent Mancini. AKA Machete Mancini. I’m sure you can guess why.”

  “Dear Lord.”

  “Yeah. Oh, and there’s another one I thought was interesting. The Ghost.”

  “Ghost?” As in . . . what?

  “No one really knows who he is. There isn’t even a photo of him.”

  “Great,” I muttered under my breath. So much for the butcher and baker—well, the butcher might be right.

  There was a pause, then Claudio asked, “Grace, why are you asking about these guys? You’re not thinking of taking one of them on as a client, are you? Because these are not nice people.”

  That moment, the French doors opened and a trio of men stepped into the bright, midmorning sun.

  “Nope. Listen, I’ve got to run. Thanks.” I hung up on another round of Claudio’s warnings and stood to face the men.

  Thankfully, years of dealing with the
sometimes chaotic thoughts of animals had gifted me with a strong rein on my own emotions. So when I recognized one of the men, I was fairly sure I kept my shock under wraps.

  “Miss Wilde.” The tall, lean man at the front of the group smiled and offered his hand. “I’m Frank Ferretto.”

  Though I didn’t relish the thought, I took his hand. The drive to be polite overrode my wariness.

  Southern is as Southern does.

  “Thank you for coming out here to talk with me.”

  As we took our seats on opposite sides of the table, the other men moved to flank Ferretto in traditional bodyguard style.

  Yard Guy wore dark sunglasses, so I couldn’t tell if he was looking at me or not. The second man, who was slightly smaller, with a wiry frame, flicked his gaze over me, gave me a creepy half smile, then he locked his eyes on Moss.

  I inclined my head at Ferretto. It was the only response I could manage, given that Moss was radiating aggression like an angry badger.

  I knew without a doubt that Mr. Creepy Smile was Vincent Mancini. The fact that he had locked eyes with Moss meant he was either stupid or crazy.

  Bad. Moss let out a low growl.

  I know. It’s okay.

  Not okay. Bad.

  I clinched my teeth then forced a calm breath. Encountering a sociopath had not been on my to-do list for the day. Mancini was triggering a searing protectiveness in Moss. It vibrated through me like an electric current. I wasn’t sure I was up to the task of shielding myself from thoughts of massive violence while keeping a reasonable line of communication open.

  “Could you ask your friend to stop challenging my dog? He’s sensitive.” I placed my hand on Moss’s head and he peeled his lips back to show Mancini who had the bigger, sharper teeth.

  Ferretto glanced from me to Moss. Until that moment, I don’t think he’d given Moss much notice—which made him either arrogant or a fool.

  I was betting on arrogant.

  “Vince,” Ferretto snapped, “go grab us some coffee or something.”

  Mancini hesitated, then moved away, still holding that creepy little smile.

  “My apologies, Miss Wilde.” Ferretto plucked a piece of lint from the knee of his trousers and flicked it away. “I’m afraid my associate gets excited easily.”