by Rachel Ford
Why? Had Ray known too much? It wouldn’t have been the first time someone’s ribcage got intimately acquainted with a knife, to make sure they never turned evidence against the mafia.
Still, the taxman felt uneasy with this solution. It was too neat, his mind argued. Something wasn’t right. He could feel it, more as an instinct than a logical objection.
Alfred stared unseeing at his screen, the wheels of his mind turning. He had been in law enforcement long enough to respect his gut. His hunches tended to pan out, his hits were a lot more frequent than his misses. And when he felt something keenly, like he did now?
He was rarely wrong.
He flipped through the files he’d pulled, and the scans of grainy, black and white photos and newspaper clippings.
He studied the images taken the night of the fateful raid, when Ray Lorina marched into Fat Sal’s Pizzeria, bold as brass, with a warrant to arrest Salvatore Tomassi. Someone had tipped the press off, and they were there to capture it all. Only it wasn’t Fat Sal who wound up in cuffs that night.
Instead, the reputed mafia princeling watched, grinning, as the cuffs were clapped on his nemesis. A Joe Donnelly with The Globe captured the shot, preserving Sal’s look of triumph for posterity.
Alfred stared at it, trying to get a sense of the man. He was big – fat as his moniker implied, but tall too, and broad shouldered. He was handsome, in a very Italian way – dark hair, dark eyes, and olive skin.
The fact was, Alfred’s own family tree was full of men who looked an awfully lot like this. And, if family legends were anything to go by, a few of them might have made similarly questionable career choices, though with less success than the Tomassi prince. There was great uncle Louis, who had disappeared in highly questionable circumstances in the twenties. There’d been a brother-in-law of one of the Favero great-grandfathers, too – Anthony – who was said to be in cahoots with the mob, plying his trade bootlegging, back in the day.
Alfred shook his head, to clear the thoughts away. Whatever criminality the Faveros might or might not have dabbled in a few generations back, there were no Fat Sal’s in his lineage. The easy smirk and casual posture might seem approachable. But this was a man who killed by the dozens. He’d gunned down children in front of their mothers, and mothers in front of their children. He’d made men watch as he massacred their entire families. He’d burned people in their beds, and even, rumor had it, buried his best friend alive, when he caught him skimming money from the family.
In the end, he got away with it all, because the NYPD couldn’t make the charges stick. The only jailtime Fat Sal saw across his entire, blood-soaked career was a six week stint for drunken disorderliness. And that was only because he’d got in a fight in front of half a dozen reporters.
And once police got a little too close, Salvatore Tomassi retired to Miami, where he spent the rest of his days in the lap of luxury, dying of natural causes at the age of eighty-five.
Alfred found himself frowning at the grainy picture, at the self-satisfied smirk plastered on the other man’s lips. It was the expression of someone who had won, and knew it. It was the look of Count Mondego, watching Edmond disappear forever. It was the face of Brutus, plunging the dagger into Caesar’s ribs. It was the kiss of Judas, before the soldiers. It was betrayal.
Ray’s case against Sal had fallen apart as soon as he was taken in, overshadowed by his own arrest, and eventually forgotten. An idea flitted around the taxman’s brain. It seemed impossible, but the more he entertained it, the more it blossomed.
What if, he postulated, the knife was the second hit? What if the first hit – the real hit – against Ray Lorina had happened that night, February 3rd, 1940? What if Ray Lorina had gotten too close to a mafia prince, and Mario Tomassi took him out before he could take out one of his grandsons?
Chapter Three
“And that got me thinking, Nance: what if Ray didn’t do it at all? What if they framed him? What if the whole thing was a set up?” They were seated in the dining room, having swapped dinner plates for their respective work.
“Wait?” Nancy said, glancing up from her tools. “You think the IRS guy – what’s his name?”
“Walton Kennedy.”
“You think Kennedy was in on it?”
“I don’t know, babe. Maybe they planted evidence, and he was taken in. Maybe he’s dirty. I don’t know.”
She nodded slowly. “Still, that’s a hell of a conspiracy.”
“I know. But it’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“Maybe.” Her tone didn’t sound convinced. “Or maybe he just crossed the family. Maybe he got too big for his britches. Maybe he wanted a bigger cut.”
“No, Lorina was a smart guy. If you’re going to play ball with the mafia, you know what that entails. He wouldn’t have done something that stupid.”
She shrugged, turning back to the device. “I guess.”
He paused from his own rambling long enough to scrutinize her progress. Nancy had been rebuilding portions of the Futureprise spacetime field generator, after it was damaged in a rainstorm. They’d managed to hobble it back together, enough to get home anyway. But she’d since refabricated and repaired the components with more durable, and scalable, technology. “How’s that going, anyway?”
“Well, I need to swap out a few more capacitors, but then I think it’ll be ready for a test run.”
Here, the taxman hesitated. He was always a bit nervous about jumping through time or across dimensions. But the prototype device had been designed by an entire team of geniuses at Futureprise Corporation. Not that he didn’t have faith in Nancy’s abilities, but she was sort of flying blind here. “Uh, right.”
She picked up on the tone, and frowned at him. “Chicken.”
“I’m not a chicken, Nance. I just don’t want my atoms sprinkled across all of time and space.”
“I got you home last time, didn’t I? No atom-sprinkling?”
“That’s true,” he conceded.
“And I was working with medieval tools then.”
“Also true.”
“So don’t be a baby.”
“Fine, fine,” he sighed. “I’ll go. If we’re going to disintegrate ourselves, at least we’ll disintegrate together.”
“Always the romantic,” she grinned.
“Always. So, when do we leave?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll finish tonight, but I want to test all the connections before I put it back together.”
“Good thinking.”
She shook her head at him. “Anyway. You were telling me about the detective?”
“That’s right: Ray.”
Nancy smiled. “So he’s Ray now, is he? The other day he was Lorina.”
“Well, the other day, I thought he was a dirty cop. Today, I think he was a railroaded cop.”
It was then that a small, furry orange form materialized onto the table, seeming to come from nowhere. Alfred jumped back. Nance gasped. “Fluff! You’re not supposed to be on the table.”
The taxman waved a hand at the kitten. “Shoo, Satan. Get out of here.”
She turned her attention from the cat to him, and a frown crossed her brow. “Babe, I really wish you’d stop saying that.”
“What?”
“Calling Fluff ‘Satan.’”
Alfred glanced at her warily. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Justin’s words from earlier in the day lingered. “Why?”
“Because,” she said, exasperated. “He’s just a baby. You shouldn’t say things like that.”
He gulped, his mind racing. Just a baby. “Uh, well, uh…”
“It’s a terrible thing to say.”
“But, uh, he’s not a real baby, Nance. I mean, it’d be different if he was a real baby. I wouldn’t call a real baby Satan. Like, if we had a son, I wouldn’t call him that.”
She stared at him, seeming at once confused and alarmed. “Well…obviously, Alfred. That goes without saying. Doesn’t it?”
�
�Exactly. It’s just a cat.”
She frowned. “I know it’s just a cat.”
“Not a baby,” he felt it necessary to reiterate.
Her frown deepened. “That doesn’t mean I like hearing you call this poor little guy Satan all the time.”
He nodded, relaxing a pinch. “Alright. Alright, Nance, I’ll think of something else.”
“He’s got a name…”
“It doesn’t fit him.”
“He’s fluffy.”
“Yeah, but he’s more evil than he is fluffy. Would you mind if I called him Demon?”
“Not as bad as Satan,” she conceded. “But yes, I hate it, too.”
“Okay…how about Daemon?”
She pulled a face, but he was grinning. “It’s not as clever as you think it is, babe.”
Alfred shrugged. “I like it.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine, fine. It’s better than Satan, I guess.”
He nodded. “Alright. In that case: down, Daemon. Off the table.”
The kitten was cleaning one of the two matching white mittens of paws, and it didn’t bother to glance up when he addressed it. It was, Alfred had to admit, adorable. Still, it was an animal, and it was on the dining room table. “I said down.”
He tried a few more times, but finally Nance, laughing at his ineffectualness, picked Fluff up, cooing and kissing him a few times, and set the cat down on a chair beside her. It seemed content to stay there, and the taxman sighed. “You see? It doesn’t even listen to me?”
“Fluff doesn’t listen to anyone, darling. He’s a cat. It goes with the territory.”
Alfred printed the scanned documents he’d been reviewing, and slipped them into a manila folder. Then, he’d slipped that folder under his arm and walked into work the next day, as if he was carrying any other case file.
Not a file he’d put together on a case that had been closed for decades.
But, the fact was, talking to Nance had only ignited his imagination. He couldn’t get over the smirking face of Fat Sal. He’d found images of the trial, too, and the haunted expression in Ray Lorina’s eyes as the sentence came down was seared in his brain.
Lorina was the Edmond Dantès to Sal’s Count Mondego, and the moment of that sentence was the moment he understood he was truly bound for the Château d'If. But there had been no bittersweet revenge for Detective Ray Lorina. There’d been no escape, no getting back at the men who had wronged him.
Ray had died in that prison, and his killer had gone on to be rewarded for the crime, just as Sal had lived out the rest of his days free from any fallout.
The taxman arrived at work before Justin, and shut his door in the hopes that it might ward the other man off. Then, he logged onto his computer, and promptly ignored all the unread emails waiting for him.
He turned back to the printouts, spreading them across his desk. He focused on the images of the trial and sentencing. He studied a photo of Ray in cuffs after the sentence was handed down, being dragged through a gauntlet of reporters and angry citizens.
And in his mind, that famous line of Dumas’ returned: “All human wisdom is contained in these two words – wait and hope.”
The taxman was seized by the thought that hope had abandoned Ray Lorina, waiting had betrayed him. All of human wisdom had failed him.
Alfred felt, with every atom of his lawman’s being, convinced that a grave injustice had been done to that NYPD detective.
Chapter Four
“Well, moment of truth, eh, Freddie?”
Alfred brushed the papers he was studying into a pile at the sound of that voice, and flipped the stack. Then, he glanced up. “What now?”
He was in his office, still looking at the casefile. Justin stood at his door, suddenly interested in his work. “What’s that, then? New case?”
“Something like that. But you were saying? Moment of truth or something?” He really didn’t want to hear, but, then, he didn’t want to explain why he was studying a long-solved case, either, instead of working on actual projects.
“Yeah. I heard Caspersen say he’s heading over from orientation. The new guy.”
“Oh. Baker.” Alfred tried to muster enthusiasm. He’d been around the office long enough, and seen enough new guys come and go, that it didn’t really interest him anymore.
“That’s right. Come on, Freddo, don’t pretend you’re not a little curious. I mean, the IT hires are always fun. You never know what you’re going to get. Social phobias? Bad hygiene? General weirdness?” Justin was snort-laughing, and Alfred frowned at him. “Oh, not Nance, of course. She’s – you know, different.”
Alfred’s glower deepened. “You know, I really do have to get back to work.”
“Your mystery case.” He smiled. “So what is it, anyway? Caspersen give you some kind of special assignment?”
“Just reviewing an old case.”
He said it nonchalantly, like it was the most mundane thing in the world. Justin wasn’t buying it, though. “Ohh, I love cold cases. What’d you get? A fugitive?” He cracked a grin. “Have you found your own Jean Valjean to chase to the ends of the earth, Javert?”
Alfred peered superciliously over the bridge of his nose at the other man. “Finally picked up a book, have you?”
Justin laughed. “A book? Geez, Freddie, you are so out of the loop. That’s Les Miserables. You know, the famous musical? They’ve made movies about it?” He shrugged. “Stacey got us tickets for her birthday.”
The taxman was torn between responses. On the one hand, he wanted to point out that the musical was based on a book – a book that might rightly be considered a hallmark of western literature. But in the end, he settled for the pettier reply. “So…Stacey bought her own birthday present? And it was a ticket for you?”
Justin snorted. “Believe me, dude. That was no gift for me. If it wasn’t her birthday, I would not have gone. I mean, musical theater?” He shivered. “No thanks.”
Alfred shook his head. “Oh, so her present was paying for the privilege of your company?”
The other man nodded, seemingly oblivious to the sarcasm lacing every word. “She likes me to go with her to those things.”
Before the taxman could muster a sufficiently frosty response, Director Caspersen’s voice reached his ears. “Ah, Lyon, Favero: there you are.”
They glanced up, a moment before the director stepped into view, a light-haired, middle aged man in tow.
“Director,” Alfred greeted.
“Good morning, Director,” Justin effused. “How are you? Oh, and this must be our new recruit?”
“Greg Baker,” the other man nodded, extending a hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Justin Lyon,” came the reply. “Senior Analyst.”
“And this,” Caspersen said, nodding in Alfred’s direction, “is Alfred Favero.”
“Also a senior analyst,” he felt it necessary to point out.
Greg nodded again. “Good to meet you too. I’m on the network side of things, myself.”
“I know.” Then, remembering something Nance had told him – never piss off the network guys – he forced a smile and a more engaged tone. “I hope you like it here.”
“Oh, I already do. I think I’m going to love it here – everyone’s so friendly.”
The taxman groaned internally. He’s one of them. Either a suck up or an optimist – and he had no love of either. Still, he mustered a, “Great.”
“So…Favero? Not the Favero?” Greg wondered.
Director Caspersen laughed. “Oh, there’s only one.”
Alfred frowned as Justin chortled. Greg’s eyes widened a little. “Oh, well, awwwk-ward.”
“Is it?”
“I mean, my predecessor tried to kill you, right?”
Justin snorted, confiding, ostensibly in jest, “Wait until you get to know him, Greg. It’ll make sense.”
“He was going to, yes. Me and Nance.”
“Nance?”
“Freddie�
��s girl,” Justin supplied.
“Nancy Abbot,” Caspersen put in.
“Oh, the IT team lead?” Greg seemed impressed.
“That’s the one.”
“Met her earlier. Nice lady.” The network engineer nodded, and Alfred wondered if, perhaps, he’d been too quick to judge him. “Well, I mean, the good thing about all this is, it can only go up from here, right?” He chuckled, even as the other men stared at him, blankly. “I mean, we’re bound to get along better than you and what’s-his-face: I won’t be trying to kill anyone.”
Here, Justin shook his head. “Oh, Greg. You haven’t gotten to know him yet. Don’t limit your options until you do.”
“And then,” Alfred was saying, “Justin said…” He trailed off. “Babe, are you even listening to me?”
Nancy glanced up from her plate, and the fries she was picking through thereon. “Hanging on every word, darling.”
He frowned at the teasing notes of her voice, then sighed. “I’m boring you.”
She laughed. “No you’re not. Go on. Finish your story. What did Justin say after that?”
He started up again, resuming the thread where he’d left off. But, then, he stopped. “Nance, what’s wrong? You’ve been quiet all morning.”
“Nothing, Alfred. It’s just been a long morning.”
He reached out a hand to hers. “Is it something at the office?”
She smiled as he held her hand. “No, nothing like that.”
“Then what?”
She sighed, pushing her lunch plate away. “It’s just…” She fixed him with a piercing gaze, and he felt suddenly as if he might have erred to press her.
Warily, he asked, “Just?”
“What you said yesterday, about babies…what did you mean by that?”
For several seconds, Alfred could only blink, mute and unthinking, like the proverbial deer in the headlights. Then, he flapped his gums once. No sound came out. He tried again, and he found his voice. Not all of it, but enough to choke out, “Babies?”
