CHAPTER NINETEEN
Winter Park, Florida
May 11
Luigi rolled his shoulders. The rental car’s seats were soft. They seemed to have sunk even lower since he left the cops. American cars were nothing like his beloved Lamborghini.
The mist still swirled in the air, thick and lumpy. The Grantly’s house was still on the edge of visibility. A faint light glowed from one of the front rooms, but the old people hadn’t stepped out of the door, and they probably wouldn’t for some time yet.
The clock showed 7:11. It would be after one o’clock in the afternoon in Italy. A good time to call Enzo.
He pulled his phone from his pocket. The creaky plastic felt slippery in his hands. The screen was dim, the colors washed out. It was the sort of cheap rubbish he hated. At home, he would have thrown it away, but not in the USA.
He’d purchased the disposable phone on a previous trip and stored it in a rental locker at JFK airport. It was a useful trick he had devised as his trips to the U.S. became more frequent.
Like so many first-world countries, surveillance cameras were mounted everywhere in the U.S., even in the cheapest of convenience stores. Which meant purchasing an identity-less, throwaway phone still carried a significant risk. But the risk was greatly reduced when he’d realized that Americans have short memories. A characteristic that carried over to their surveillance. He smiled. Americans were idiots.
He dialed Enzo. The number his brother was using while Luigi was traveling in the U.S. The phone buzzed with each button press. Fifteen digits. Fifteen toneless buzzes. As was their usual protocol, the number changed frequently. One number per trip stateside. No less. Sometimes, more.
Luigi watched dots travel across the flimsy screen. They rolled off one end of the display, and reappeared on the other. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. The dots disappeared, and the display showed “connected.”
He held the phone to his ear. He heard three tones. Buttons being pressed on the other end. One long, two short. His brother’s signal.
Luigi pressed a button for a couple of seconds. No fanciful tunes for him. With their private coded greeting completed, Luigi spoke.
“I’m waiting outside their place.” He didn’t elaborate on names. He didn’t have to. His brother would know who the Grantlys were.
“Good,” Enzo said.
“They took some persuading, though.”
“The old ones always do. I’m not sure if it’s because they’re wiser, or more stupid.”
“Trust me, it’s definitely the latter.” Luigi squirmed in the pillowed seat.
“But it’s all under control, yes?”
“What do you think?”
“I have every confidence in you.” Enzo sounded preoccupied. Having lunch, perhaps.
“Good. Because I’m down to the final run, tailing them all the way.”
“Let’s hope that’s as difficult as it gets.”
Luigi grinned. “You spoil all my fun.”
“Fun isn’t good for profits.”
“But it’s good for me.”
Enzo snorted. “Don’t let your fun get in the way of our business.”
Luigi gripped the phone harder. He did not reply. Enzo always needed to act like his older brother. They were no longer children. Would he never stop?
Enzo said, “How can you be sure the Grantlys haven’t gone to the police?”
“I have it covered. I’ve had them under surveillance. I’ve had their phone bugged.” Luigi stretched and squirmed, trying to get comfortable. “They haven’t made so much as a sandwich without me knowing about it. They’re clean. They’re good. No police involved.”
Enzo took a deep breath. “And they collected the money?”
“Eventually.”
“Eventually?”
Luigi shook his head. “I don’t know. They left it until the last minute to pack.”
“And that doesn’t worry you?”
“They’re ninety. It’s amazing they can walk, let alone pack a case.”
Enzo was silent for a moment. “But you’re sure they have the money?”
“Positive, I was forced to listen to them count it.” He shook his head in the dark. “Three times.”
“You didn’t find a way to check?”
“They counted every damn bill. I can tell you it was tedious. Damn tedious. But they’re too stupid to have faked it.” Luigi’s patience for the Grantlys was exhausted long ago. If he was in Italy, he’d simply have killed them already and taken the money with him when he left. Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option here.
“Let’s hope they’re not stupid enough to back out.” Enzo swallowed something. The noise was followed by a clink of china.
“I have ways to encourage them.”
“Be sure you are careful.”
“Have I ever been anything else?”
Enzo paused again. “What about three years ago?”
Luigi frowned. He cupped the back of his neck with his hand. “Three years ago?”
“Is your memory so short you’ve forgotten Las Vegas already?”
Luigi rolled his eyes. “Pah. She was a prostitute.”
“And she got you arrested.”
“For one night. And not even the whole night.”
“You were lucky the damn place was more interested in your money than your life.”
Luigi laughed. “You’re jealous.”
“I need a successful conclusion to our business. This time, and every time.”
Luigi clenched his teeth. He hated his brother when he insisted he was the only one interested in their business. He took a deep breath. “Like I said, you’re only jealous.”
“Of a prostitute?”
“You never met her. Because if you had, you’d be begging her.”
“I don’t believe you were in any state to appraise her particular skills in any way at all.”
Luigi laughed. “Like I said, you’re jealous.”
“You need to focus on the business. The job.”
Luigi nodded. “And what about at your end?”
Enzo grunted. “Taviani?”
“Yeah, spineless Taviani.”
“Absolutely no problem. I have him under control.”
“I don’t trust him. He’s slippery.”
“Don’t I know it? He groveled his way into two extensions.”
“His family is the best way to control him.”
“I know that, too.”
“You’ve got to wonder how someone as worthless as Taviani could amass a pile of beans, let alone a couple of million.”
Enzo grunted. “Be grateful he did.”
“We should have screwed him for the whole lot.”
“Never. You know my rules.” The china clinked again. Perhaps Enzo’s favorite white demitasse cup resting on its saucer. “You must leave them hope, or they’ll do something desperate. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“We should have gone harder on him. Taken his daughter. That would have supplied proper motivation.”
“Absolutely not. It would have motivated him to go to the police.”
Luigi snorted. “You just don’t like doing business at home.”
“Never do business with family and friends. Remember?”
Luigi laughed. “Who the hell would want to call him a friend?”
“You know what I mean. It’s a good rule. We will stick to it in the future.”
“Unless we find another lemon with a few million going to waste.”
Enzo laughed. “Yeah, that would make a difference.”
“So, you’re paying Taviani a visit this evening?”
“No.”
Luigi frowned. His brother’s voice had a smug satisfaction to it.
“But that was the plan.”
“It was.”
Luigi sighed. “So what now? Don’t tell me he begged for a few more days?”
“Pah. He would have begged for anything, but I didn
’t give him a chance.”
A faint smile dawned on Luigi’s face. “Would have?”
“I had him watched. I knew he had the money. Separate withdrawals, separate banks. Everything below the limit that triggers attention. The whole thing. Just like I told him.”
“And?”
“So, I visited him last night. A day early. In case he got cold feet.”
Luigi beamed. “He handed it over?”
“I relieved him of the burden.”
Luigi pumped his clenched fist close to his chest. “So we’re a million better off.”
“Nine hundred eighty-five. Fifteen short.” Enzo sighed. “He was slippery all the way to the end.”
“But who’s counting?”
“Me. Every time.”
“And Taviani?”
Enzo laughed. “Well…this morning he’s all over the news, but last night he was all over the floor. And the walls, and the furniture.”
Luigi’s smile twisted to one side. “You’re a cold one, brother.”
“But a rich one.”
Luigi nodded. “Yes.”
Enzo cleared his throat. “So, get the Grantlys sorted over there, and we can finish things at the airport.”
“Count on it. Be ready for my—”
A hundred feet away, two headlights glowed in the mist. Luigi leaned forward, straining to see through the gloom.
“What?” Enzo said.
“Car lights. Outside the Grantly house. I’ve got to go.”
Luigi pressed off, and dropped the phone into the cup holder. It clattered about, cheap plastic bouncing on cheap plastic. He didn’t care. He released the handbrake and rolled to within fifty feet of the Grantly house.
The headlights were clear, but the outline of the waiting vehicle was barely visible. He took out one of his knives.
He had no intention of letting anyone disrupt his business with the Grantlys. He turned the knife over. Absolutely no one.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Winter Park, Florida
May 11
Jess pulled up in front of a modest bungalow in the town’s historic district. Even in the fog, this one was a real estate agent’s dream. Gray shingle roof atop a white clapboard exterior trimmed with deep red around the windows. Flower baskets hung on chains around the porch. A snow-white picket fence surrounded the manicured lawn.
She grabbed her bag, and hustled up the steps onto a cypress planked front porch.
She rang the bell.
A brass plate above the door claimed construction in 1925.
Jess studied the number. Nineteen twenty-five? About the same age as the Grantlys. She put her hand on the door. Had one of them been born in the house? Lived at the same address all their lives?
She exhaled. What would that feel like? Did they feel a sense of belonging? Or were they stifled?
She shook her head. She’d never had a permanent home. Nothing long term. Nowhere she had put down roots. All she owned was stuffed into a rented one-bedroom apartment in Denver only because Taboo Magazine’s corporate offices were there. And she hadn’t been back in weeks. She felt zero affection for the place. She could as easily have lived in Nowhereville.
Until she found Peter, she spent as little time as possible inside the same four walls.
She took her hand from the door. What was taking so long? An odd sense of deja vu washed over her. For the fourth time in two days, she’d stood outside an unfamiliar door waiting for whatever happened. Would this be the one time she got lucky?
Jess leaned her ear to the door and heard nothing. She pushed the bell again. A series of eight chimes rang out. Then silence returned to the house.
A man walked by on the street. She watched him until he disappeared into the fog, hoping all the time he wasn’t part of a neighborhood watch program.
She waited another thirty seconds in case he returned, and then peered through the windows into the Grantlys’ living room.
A night-light provided enough illumination to see that the house looked like the set from an old wartime movie. A small sofa. Two winged chairs in a matching, somewhat faded fabric. An oval coffee table. A chest of drawers on spindly legs with ball-and-claw feet.
Jess drummed her nails on the window ledge. The efficient Miss Fuchsia had said Roger Grantly would be home. A real morning person. Great coffee.
Jess bit her lip. He might be all those things, but at ninety-something, he would hardly have decided to take a stroll with his wife through the morning fog. It was barely daylight and the fog was still heavy enough to eat with a spoon.
Jess stepped back from the window. Miss Fuchsia had said something else, too. A heart attack. Last year. Jess breathed. If he knew his son was involved in extortion—maybe even murder—that could certainly be a lot of stress on an old heart.
She put her hand on the doorknob, and turned. The door creaked open. Even in this picturesque town, leaving doors unlocked couldn’t be a common practice.
The hair on the back of her neck prickled. Too many people had died already. If his heart had given out, well, there might be nothing she could do to help, but she couldn’t turn away.
She pushed open the door. “Mr. Grantly? Are you home?”
The door opened into a hallway with a parquet floor. Large arches led off to the living room on one side and a dining room on the other. The house smelled like a museum that had been liberally coated in furniture polish. An old grandfather clock ticked like a metronome, but there were no voices.
She stepped into the house, and closed the door behind her. The wood floor clicked under her shoes. She cleared her throat.
“Mr. Grantly?” She turned her head, listened for the faintest sound of movement, but heard nothing. “Mrs. Grantly?”
She looked through the arch into the living room. The cushions on the chairs were plumped and upright. The coffee table was empty except for a large hardback book with a jungle picture on the cover. A television remote was balanced on the arm of a chair.
But no one in the room.
She passed the grandfather clock. It was a minute from 7:30. The parquet creaked under her shoes. “Mr. Grantly?”
No answer.
She looked around the edge of the arch into the dining room, and jerked back. Facing her across the room, a full-sized suit of armor stood at attention. The armor had a moveable cover for the face, but it had been lifted, leaving a dark gaping hole where the knight’s eyes should have been.
She studied the armor for a moment, fully expecting it to walk toward her, but like everything else she’d seen in the house, it wasn’t alive. She regretted the thought the moment it popped into her head. She bit her lip. She took a deep breath, and turned away from the dining room.
Winchester chimes rang out, strident, reverberating off the wooden floor. Jess’s heart jumped. She lurched away from the grandfather clock. The hammers banged on. Tones evenly spaced. Her heartbeat synced to each one. She took a deep breath. Seven thirty.
As the last tone faded, she realized the chimes were abnormally loud. Which probably meant at least one of the Grantlys had to be deaf because no one with normal hearing could possibly sleep through that racket.
She looked down the hallway. Sleep? The Grantlys couldn’t possibly still be asleep, could they? Her skin tingled. If they weren’t out walking and they weren’t responding to her voice, there weren’t many other good reasons she could think of for their failure to acknowledge her presence in their home.
The far end of the hall had no window. It grew darker the farther it went into the house. Thin lines of light escaped underneath the remaining doors.
She drew her gun, and moved down the hallway. The air changed. The waxy museum smell gave way to a heavier scent. Chicken, perhaps? Or beef? She bit her lip. Or perhaps something else.
The next door was open a fraction. Through the gap, she saw a kitchen stove, and heard the hum of a refrigerator. She put her hand on the doorknob, and froze.
Behind her, somethin
g clicked. A loud, metallic click with a crunching noise. It was almost like the ratcheting of a shotgun. She swallowed. She adjusted her grip on the Glock, and turned.
There was no one behind her. Light reflected from the polished wood floor. The front door was closed, just as she had left it.
A muffled voice drifted through the house. She spun back and forth, training the gun up and down the hallway. From light to dark and back again. She saw no one.
She heard the voice again. Quiet. Indistinct. It could be the Grantlys. Perhaps she had scared them, walking into their house. Then again, why hadn’t they responded to the doorbell, or her shouts?
She took a deep breath. There was only one answer, and she didn’t like it.
The voice didn’t belong to either of the Grantlys.
She stepped to the next door. Moving slowly. Lifting the heel of her shoe before the toe. Placing the heel down first. Gently shifting her weight from foot to foot. She kept her mouth open to keep her breathing silent.
The voice stopped.
She paused outside the door, and eased herself lower to become a smaller target.
The voice started again. A few words. Still quiet. Still muffled.
She tightened her grip on her Glock, and placed her left hand on the door. Another word drifted through the air.
She took a deep breath, held it in her lungs, and looked at the doorknob.
Twist and push. That was all she had to do. Twist hard, and push hard. Nothing half-hearted. No rattling the door. No advance warning.
She twisted and pushed. Punching the door inward, holding her gun forward, her gaze sweeping the room.
It was a bedroom. An empty bedroom.
The voice sounded again. Mumbled and muffled, and coming from the corner of the room. She released the breath she’d been holding and stood up, feeling a little relieved and a little silly.
In the corner was a bedside table, a woman’s robe lying across it. She picked up the robe. A clock radio perched on the table underneath the summer weight fabric. A talk show host interviewing some politician. The alarm was set for seven thirty, and the clock was running a little slow.
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