The Dark Side of Town

by Sasscer Hill

  “He’s managing,” she said, taking a large swig. The sweet smell of her bourbon drifted across the room mingling unpleasantly with the odor of rotten fish. In the kitchen, a glass broke on the floor.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” she muttered, before shouting, “Would you people be careful!”

  “Yes, Mrs. Gorman.”

  She settled farther back in the love seat and took another large sip. I smiled pleasantly and waited for her to get tanked on bourbon. After she’d had a few more sips, I spoke.

  “You had some interesting people at your party, Joan, like that Darren Onandi. Is he Rich’s friend?”

  “Onandi? They knew each other years ago. His bank invested in Rich’s business back when it was a start-up company. I hadn’t heard his name mentioned in ages. Apparently he was in New York City on investment business, so Rich invited him to come up.”

  So that was the connection. Maybe we hadn’t found it because Brian and I hadn’t searched far back enough through the records of Onandi’s bank.

  “His girlfriend was quite lovely,” I said. “And I also liked that Al Savarine fellow. What do you know about him?”

  She stretched, took one more sip, and said, “Almost nothing. Why are you interested? He wasn’t very attractive.”

  I smiled and forced a giggle. “You’re right. He looked like a thug.” I paused a few moments, then said, “I don’t want you and Rich running into trouble.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “Did you know Rich bought into a questionable business deal with Savarine?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “A very reliable source at the racetrack,” I said.

  She paled and took a substantial sip of whiskey. “I knew something was wrong. Rich has been acting weird recently.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Even before that dreadful party. He’s been secretive, and he jumped on me for talking about his partnership with Percy. He told me not to talk about his horse businesses with other people. He’s never been like that.”

  “Is that why you wouldn’t talk to me on the phone when you were at the Adelphi?”

  “Yes, he was very tense. But it’s understandable after the ordeal we’d just been through. But what is this ‘deal’ you mentioned?”

  I told her about the hedge fund.

  Joan sagged deeper into the love seat. “This isn’t like Rich. He’s never kept things from me. He told me everything, including the close to shady moves he was forced to take to get his internet company sold.” Her voice took on a pleading tone. “But he’s never broken the law. Fia, you were a cop. Can you find out more about this Savarine?”

  “I don’t have connections with the police anymore.” I could lie with the best of them. “But I’ll see if I can learn anything new.”

  She sat up straighter, her shoulders tensing. “Just don’t ask Rich anything.”

  “Why? Are you afraid of him?”

  “No, of course not,” she said, but her eyes skittered away from me.

  I wasn’t the only liar in the room.

  19

  The day before Bionic’s race, Stevie was at the barn in the morning. He gave Bionic a long jog the wrong way around the track, rode him back to the barn, and avoided my attempt to talk to him. I wanted to tell him I knew about Lila, get him to open up. But he was so tense, I was afraid he’d implode if I pushed.

  As soon as he finished his work, Stevie lit out of the barn like a chicken chased by a hatchet. Moments later, Javier handed me Bionic and I began walking him. The colt looked good, with tighter muscles and a belly that had drawn up nicely into the greyhound look of a fit racehorse. He had a good chance to win. If he was allowed to run.

  After rounding the end of the barn, I led him down Maggie’s side. Ahead, the bantam rooster perched on the outside rail, his glossy tail feathers iridescent in the morning sun. Apparently Becky Joe’s threat to snuff the bird had been an idle one, and by now, Bionic was familiar with the rooster and ignored him.

  As we drew closer, the bird made little chuckles of alarm and sidled away from us on the rail, before hopping down, ruffling his feathers, and stalking off. He was as self-impressed as Mars Pizutti and as hard to catch as Stevie.

  When we rounded the next corner, Mars’s shedrow stretched ahead of us, and I slowed to stare at a white Cadillac I hadn’t seen before. A moment later, Rico Pizutti climbed out of the driver’s seat. He headed toward Mars’s office, his large nose jutting over his down-turned mouth. He wore dark glasses, gray slacks, and a white zip-up pullover—probably dressed for lunch at his mob restaurant.

  When Bionic and I passed him, I nodded and said good morning, but he ignored me. When I glanced back, he was stepping into Mars’s office. I quickened my horse’s pace, hurrying around the barn, before slowing to a crawl as we neared the office. Fortunately, the sand and dirt of the aisle muffled the sound of Bionic’s hooves. I turned my cell to record and slid it into my breast pocket, hoping it could catch their conversation over the thudding of my heart.

  “Is she all right?” I heard Mars’s whiny voice ask.

  “She’s a little desolate,” Rico said, and laughed like he’d told a great joke. “Get it?”

  “Yeah, I get it. But it’s not funny. I don’t like this, Rico. She’s a little girl.”

  I stopped walking Bionic, my ears straining to hear the next words.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Mars. Don’t be such a softie. Your horse will be favored to win. Sefino’s gonna give his long shot some electrical assistance, and we’re gonna make a pile of money.”

  “I still don’t like it,” Mars whined. “Stevie’s a good kid.”

  Rico’s next words were so soft I barely heard them. “Yeah, well, I told him if he doesn’t pull that horse, his kid sister’s gonna wind up in the bottom of the lake.”

  “You wouldn’t do that!”

  “The Pizutti family doesn’t make idle threats, Mars. You should remember that.”

  Footsteps sounded on the office’s wooden floor, and I encouraged Bionic to step up to a normal walk. We were almost past the room when Rico appeared in the doorway. He frowned at me, then shrugged. After all, I was a weirdo Goth and a lowly hot walker. Why would I be a problem?

  He followed us down the shedrow, and as I went around the corner and headed up the other side, I heard the Caddy’s engine turn over, signaling Rico’s departure. As soon as I put Bionic away, I sent a text to Calixto asking him to call me immediately.

  He did, and I told him what I’d heard.

  “I am on my way. Did your recording come out?”

  “I haven’t had time to play it back yet.”

  “Let us pray you were successful. I will call my contact at the FBI now. Perhaps our friend Rico has just purchased a one-way ticket to Ray Brook,” he said before disconnecting.

  Ray Brook would make a nice home for Rico. A federal correctional institution conveniently located in the mobster’s neck of the woods, it was just up the road in the Adirondack Mountains. As far as I was concerned, they could throw Mars in there, too.

  I found Becky Joe in the tack room, cleaning Bionic’s bridle in preparation for the next day’s race.

  She looked at me and frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, but something’s come up. I have to leave. Could you get someone else to do the water buckets?”

  “You done everything else?” When I nodded, she said, “Yeah, I’ll do it.”

  We both looked out the tack room door as we heard the rumble of a muscle-car engine. Calixto’s Jag.

  “I’ll say something’s come up,” Becky Joe said. “If that came for me, I’d leave, too. He’s one fine package.”

  I didn’t bother to correct her impression that I was out for a lark with Calixto. I just smiled, told her thanks, and climbed into the Jag’s passenger seat, leaving her standing in the doorway with her arms crossed and a knowing look in her eyes.

  Calixto drove of
f the backstretch onto East Avenue, found a parking spot, and cut the engine. I hit playback on my phone and turned the volume as loud as it would go.

  We heard Mars ask if Lila was all right, Rico say she was a little desolate, followed by his laughter, then Mars saying it wasn’t funny. Fortunately, the part about Bionic being favored to win his race and the “electrical assistance” planned for Sefino’s long shot came through loud and clear.

  I paused the playback. “Do you have any idea who this Sefino is?”

  “Yes, the trainer Joe Sefino. He is training a horse for Rico’s associate, Alberto Rizelli.”

  I remembered the old wiseguy from Rico’s Italian restaurant, with his seamed face and nose slightly pushed to one side. “But Rizelli’s a convicted felon,” I said. “How can he get an owner’s license?”

  “Unfortunately, the New York State Gaming Commission does not consider a criminal conviction an automatic bar to being licensed.”

  “Well, that’s special,” I said and resumed playing the recording. We heard Rico talking about making a pile of money and Mars saying he still didn’t like it, that Stevie was a good kid. I tensed waiting to hear Rico’s words about putting Lila in the bottom of a lake, but there was silence.

  “No,” I said. “It has to be on here!” Fuming with annoyance, I played the sound from the beginning again, but Rico had spoken so softly his words were lost. The next voice was Mars saying, “You wouldn’t do that!”

  I felt like throwing the stupid phone.

  “Easy, pequeña leona. Tell me what Rico said.”

  I drew in a long breath and exhaled. “I don’t remember his exact words, but basically, he said he’d told Stevie that if he didn’t stop Bionic from winning, Lila would be drowned in a lake.”

  “What lake?”

  “Don’t you think I’d tell you if I knew, Calixto?”

  His facial muscles were so hardened, his eyes so narrowed with anger, he almost frightened me. But I knew his wrath was directed at Rico.

  Reminder to self. Never get on Calixto’s bad side.

  “Play the end again,” he said. I did and we heard Rico’s final words, “The Pizutti family doesn’t make idle threats, Mars. You should remember that.” Then his footsteps on the wood floor as he left.

  I turned the phone off. “I’m trying to remember exactly what Rico said, and I can’t!”

  “It will come to you, Leona. In the meantime there is a burn phone in the glove box. Take it please and hand me your phone. The FBI lab may be able to enhance the recording and retrieve Rico’s missing words.”

  I opened the glove box to find the burn phone and the first thing I saw was a Glock semiautomatic. I couldn’t help but smile.

  “You know, TRPB agents aren’t supposed to carry guns.”

  “A ridiculous rule.”

  “Won’t get any argument out of me,” I said, grabbing the throwaway and putting it in my tote bag. I handed my smartphone to Calixto, then closed the glove box.

  His fingers closed over my wrist. “I have the number of this phone and will give it to the Fair Hill office so Brian or Gunny can contact you. Don’t go, how do you say, ‘off the reservation’ without telling me. You got in enough trouble in Florida.”

  “I won’t. But what do you think Rico meant when he used the word ‘desolate’ in relation to Lila? It’s got to be a clue, but I can’t make anything of it. Unless it means she’s out in the wilderness somewhere.”

  “I do not know. When you get back to your room, run the whole scenario by Brian.”

  He dropped me off by our barn, where a breeze had kicked up, driving bits of hay, straw, and trash along the path outside the shedrow. A bank of clouds thickened on the eastern horizon as Calixto drove away, blocking the sun and turning the bright red of his Jag to the color of drying blood.

  Hoping he’d have good luck at the FBI lab, I went straight to my car and drove home to my room on Union Avenue, where I called Brian and relayed the conversation between Rico and Mars.

  “Let me work on that and call you back, Fia. I doubt I’ll come up with anything, but I sure as hell will try. That poor little girl.”

  I’d only met Brian a few times after I first landed at the bureau. He’d taught me the ins and outs of the agency, but even though we’d been in the same building, most of our contact had been through phones and computers. He was twenty-seven, thin with short, curly hair and wire-rimmed glasses. Not the most handsome guy I’d ever met, but a genius on the computer. I thanked him, hung up, and rummaged around in my freezer, glad I’d bought a frozen lasagna.

  A nice Italian meal to eat while trying to figure where some not-so-nice Italians had stashed a frightened little girl. The whole thing left me with no appetite, but I knew if something broke, I needed to be nourished. I poured a mild drink of Woodford Reserve. It made the food go down a little more easily as I forced myself to swallow the pasta and sauce.

  Think Fia, think. Nothing came to me so I let my mind drift. No doubt Lila did feel desolate. I had to unclench my jaw so I could swallow my next bite. I thought about the little dog Raymond, Lila’s clear, intelligent eyes, and felt more miserable and angry with each memory.

  What lake? The title of Sir Walter Scott’s poem drifted into my mind. “The Lady of the Lake.” I sat bolt upright. The lake, not a lake. Rico had said Stevie’s kid sister was going to wind up in the bottom of the lake.

  I booted up my computer, furious with how long it seemed to take. Finally, I was able to google the words “Saratoga Springs, Adirondack Mountains, lakes, and desolate.” Faster than you can say I hate waiting, Google asked, “Did you mean Lake Desolation?”

  20

  Lake Desolation? Had to be. At least I hoped it was the place they’d taken Lila. I clicked on the site, my eyes immediately sweeping over pictures and maps, soaking up the information on my screen.

  In the foothills of the Adirondacks, Lake Desolation, curvy and long, wound through scattered cabins and was surrounded by acres of forest. According to the map, it was barely a half hour from the racetrack, in an area called Middle Grove, bordering New York’s Lake Desolation State Forest. I studied the Earth map of the forest. It looked mountainous, wild, and lonely.

  I called Brian and when he answered, I told him what I’d found.

  “Can you search property deeds, see if Rico Pizutti or any of his associates own a cabin or land up there?”

  “You got it, babe.”

  “Thanks, Brian. I’m going to head up there and have a look around while you dig.”

  “Be careful, Fia. No heroics.”

  “No way. I’m calling Calixto now, and leaving a message for Agent Turner, too, to tell them where I’m going, what I found out.” I paused a moment. “Damn, I hope this isn’t a false lead.”

  “Sounds dead-on to me,” Brian said.

  The excitement I heard in his voice matched the pulse racing in my veins. I disconnected the call, washed the Goth makeup off, and went to my tiny closet for my disguise kit. I yanked off my Goth T-shirt, and pulled on a plain, long-sleeved blue one, not bothering to change out of my jeans and paddock boots.

  The vest I’d used in the past to hide my holstered Walther had been destroyed in a fight with two gang members in South Florida. I’d found a sturdy khaki replacement at Walmart and slipped it on in case I felt the need to wear my Walther. I packed the vest with extra bullet clips and a Buck knife.

  Then I grabbed my Walther, a power bar, and a bottle of water and shoved them into my tote bag. I slung the bag over my shoulder and picked up the disguise kit. My waterproof jacket and flashlight were in the Mini. I was ready to go.

  I drove to Lake Avenue and headed north on Church Street, making my calls to Calixto and Turner as I drove. For once, I was glad both attempts went to voicemail. I didn’t want to hear admonishments about being careful or waiting for reinforcements. I was only scouting around, after all, not breaking into cabins or anything else that put me at significant risk.

  The farther
north I sped, the more the clouds thickened and spread across the sky. The afternoon grew dark and a threat of rain dampened the air flowing in my window. After reaching Middle Grove Road, I arrived at Lake Desolation Road barely four miles later, but the area was so secluded, it could have been a hundred miles from Saratoga Springs.

  Outside my car, hemlocks and white pines formed a dense green wall. Deciduous trees, mostly beech and maples, added to the mix, their long trunks reaching to the sky as their branches sought sunlight. The forest crowded so tightly against the road, it felt claustrophobic.

  For a long time, I didn’t see the lake. It finally appeared ahead, with a rustic eatery called Tinney’s Tavern on the left side of the road. Only one car was parked in its lot. So much for a late lunch crowd where I could scan the customers and ask a few questions.

  The map had shown the road continued winding up the west side of the lake to the northern tip, before curving down back down the east side. I continued on at a snail’s pace, hoping to get a sense of the area. Every so often a mailbox and a narrow dirt or gravel road indicated the presence of a cabin on the lake. A few boxes had names on them, but none with the name “Pizutti.”

  I must have been halfway around the lake when Brian called. There was no traffic on the road, so I stopped, and grabbed the little notebook I kept in my glove box, ready to jot down any useful information he might have for me.

  “Fia, a Leonardo Pizutti owns a cabin on the lake. He’s thirty-five years old, and though he has no outstanding warrants or previous convictions, he’s probably a nephew or cousin of Rico’s. But guess who owns a twenty-acre parcel farther north?” Brian sounded almost jubilant.

  “Not in the mood to guess. Who is it?”

  “Alberto Rizelli! He’s got a cottage up there, on the edge of the state forest. Looks like there’s a long gravel road leading to the property. It’s called—you’re going to love this—Isolation Lane. Branches off Lake Desolation Road just to the northeast of the lake.”

  “I’m on the northern tip of the lake now. I should hit that cutoff soon. Where is Leonardo’s property?”