“I didn’t mean it, padre. I went in there planning just to get Logan back in the fold like you told me to, but he wouldn’t stop insulting me. It just, um, happened.”
“How the fuck does a man getting fatally stabbed in the gut just happen, Carlo?”
Carlo blinked several times. “So, they found the body, then?”
“The police just interrogated me at my club, you fuckwit! I appreciate you giving me the heads up, by the way. I could be sitting in a goddamn holding cell right now! Thank God I was at the club yesterday, with witnesses. I told them you were there too, and you’re lucky the guys backed me up on that. What the fuck were you thinking, stuffing the body in a canoe?Right out in public?”
“I—I freaked out,” Carlo retorted, feigning fear. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“You drove all the way up to fucking Lake County, and then you don’t even finish the job right? Hell, the lake was right there. You could have weighed down the body and put it in the water. No boaters are allowed near that naval station anyway …”
Angelo’s voice trailed off as something dawned on him. He peered disbelievingly at Carlo. “You’re trying to pin this on Grant,” he said slowly. “That’s why you left the body up there, not even bothering to hide it.”
Fuck. Carlo indeed had underestimated his father. Angelo could see right through his plans.
“So, you’re jealous of both brothers, then,” Angelo added, shaking his head. “You wanted to take them both out with one fell swoop. Son of a bitch, Carlo. Logan was worried about you hurting Grant, and now I know why.”
“Great. Now you’re siding with Logan and Grant against me?”
Angelo felt exhausted, and he refused to engage in this discussion. He didn’t think Carlo would like the answer anyway. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he asked, “Who was with you in the warehouse?”
“Tank and Meat.”
“Don’t tell them I know you it was you. Enzo would kill me if he found out what you did.” He sighed loudly. “This was a fuckup of massive proportions, Carlo. You have made me so goddamn furious. I don’t know what to do with you.”
“I thought you’d be proud of me,” Carlo whined.
“Proud of you? Why the hell would I be proud of you?”
“Because I took care of things for the family,” Carlo explained in a small voice. “Logan was hurting our profits, so I did the brave thing to protect the family.”
“Don’t you understand, Carlo? Logan is the family. Or, I should say, he was the family.” Now that Angelo’s rage was mostly spent, he felt a lump in his throat thinking about his godson, a man who understood and admired Angelo like none other. He would never see him again.
Clearing his throat, Angelo demanded, “Give me your weapon.”
“What? Why?”
With a menacing glare, he took a step toward his son. “Give it to me. Now.”
Grimacing, Carlo reached into his jacket and pulled out a handgun, reluctantly handing it over to his father. Angelo took the weapon and seethed, “I can’t trust you with this right now. Try not to fuck anything else up in the next few days, got it?”
Carlo gritted his teeth. “I help this family, padre. I do everything in my power to help this family. When are you going to give me the respect I deserve?”
“When you start earning it,” Angelo replied.
“Just like Logan earned it?” Carlo sneered. “Even though he lost the family hundreds of thousands of dollars, you always treated him better than me. You always wished he was your son instead of me, didn’t you?”
Suddenly Angelo couldn’t take his son’s childish jealousy a moment longer. He raised the weapon over Carlo’s head and crashed the handle into his skull. Carlo threw his hands up, but he wasn’t fast enough. His body folded like an accordion onto the marble floor.
Angelo looked down at his son, lying crumpled on his side. With dismay, he leaned down and verified that Carlo was still breathing, with a steady pulse. Staring into his son’s now-peaceful face—his permanent sneer gone now that Carlo was unconscious—Angelo hoped his son had finally learned his lesson. It was glaringly obvious that sparing the rod had not turned him into a respectable man. Once upon a time Angelo had desired to be different from his own bastard of a father, but eyeing his beaten son on the floor, he realized he was not different at all. He was a Barberi man through and through.
* * *
“Sophie, please just talk to him.”
Her roommate’s pleading tone was evident, even over the phone, but Sophie angrily stared at the books lining the shelves in her father’s study. “What, are you on his side now?”
“No,” Kirsten insisted. “It’s just that Grant looked so broken. You don’t even want to talk to him at all? Even for a few minutes?”
“He lied to me.”
“But he didn’t know, Sophie! He didn’t know his brother was the reason you went to prison.”
“Listen to yourself, Kir. Do you really think I should trust the brother of the man who ruined my life? They share fifty percent of their DNA, for heaven’s sake!”
Kirsten suppressed a giggle. DNA? Who the hell discussed DNA in the middle of a conversation about man trouble? “But he’s a different guy from his brother,” Kirsten argued. “You told me Grant was raised by his uncle, right? That he’s been trying to get far away from his family?”
“Not far enough, evidently,” Sophie spat. “He was convicted of aggravated robbery—that’s why he went to prison. I bet he was doing a job for his family. What’s to say he wasn’t working some con for them by trying to seduce me? I bet he was working a game on me.”
“Oh, come on, Sophie. That was no game. You can tell he loves you—”
Kirsten’s voice suddenly cut off, and she was quiet for a moment. “Hey, wait a second. I have another call coming in on call-waiting.”
“Okay.” Sophie tried to take some deep breaths. Talking about Grant only upset her, and she hoped to change topics when Kirsten got back on the line. She should ask Kirsten how her dissertation was coming along …
“Sophie?” Kirsten returned to their conversation. “That was actually a detective from Great Lakes calling for you. Her name was Marilyn something?”
“What?” Sophie asked, totally confused.
“They’re coming to your dad’s house to talk to you.”
“Kirsten! My father is going to freak if police officers show up here.”
“I’m sorry. She made me tell her where you were—I didn’t have a choice. She said they were conducting a murder investigation, heading into the city to interview a suspect. They need to talk to you ASAP, and your dad’s house is on the way.”
Sophie inhaled sharply. A murder investigation? Who had been murdered? She felt tears spring to her eyes, instantly knowing it was Grant.She felt it in her gut. They’re bad people, he’d told her. They’ve already destroyed my life. Oh, God. Had they killed Grant? Had they taken away the man she loved?
“Sophie?” Kirsten’s concerned voice rang out in the silence.
“I gotta go,” she replied hoarsely, hanging up the phone as the tears began. The Barberi family had already taken so much from her. They couldn’t take Grant too. She’d spoken so harshly to him the last time they saw each other. Please, don’t let it be Grant, she silently prayed, and the intensity of hurt in her heart surprised her.
Plucking tissues from the box, she dabbed at her tears, as Grant’s wounded gaze swam before her eyes. Sophie braced herself for the detective’s arrival.
32. Complicated Grief
Perched by the docks of the Chicago River, Joe Madsen could hear Grant’s smooth, confident voice before he could see him. Eventually Joe could make out Roger’s ship, chugging toward him at the end of the five o’clock cruise.
Joe strained to hear Grant’s voice—was that singing? Grant had been delivering some sort of monologue before, but now he was definitely singing, and it only took a few notes for Joe to identify the familiar tune: “My
Kind of Town.”Joe smiled brightly, but his smile faded when he thought of his sister Karita, Sinatra’s biggest fan. Joe knew it wasn’t by coincidence that Grant had chosen that particular song.
A charge of upbeat energy filled the air as the ship backed into its place along the concrete walkway. The boisterous singing of everyone on board certainly drew attention from the passersby and local businesses. Joe could see his buddy Roger adeptly working the controls, bringing the ship right alongshore. Then two young men jumped over the gunwale and tied the ship in place.
While passengers disembarked, flowing off the ship in a steady stream, Joe kept his eyes trained on the bridge. Occasionally Roger appeared to make a remark or laugh, but Grant never even smiled. He looked exhausted, gaunt, and sadder than Joe had seen him since Karita died eighteen years ago. His physical appearance did not at all match Roger’s recent reports of Grant flourishing outside of prison, and Joe wondered what was going on.
Finally all the lively, chatty passengers were off the ship, and Roger descended the stairs, chomping on a piece of fruit.
“Holy shit, are you eating an apple?” Joe called disbelievingly.
“Joe!” Roger grinned and beckoned his friend onto the deck. Proudly holding the apple aloft, Rog gestured to his belly. “Heeuh?” he pointed to his body, standing in profile and sucking in his gut. “Heeuh? Don’t I look skinny?”
“The very picture of fitness,” Joe agreed, stifling a grin. “How’s your heart doing?”
“Good,” Roger replied, glancing up to the bridge. “Much better than your nephew’s, anyway.”
Joe watched Grant move slowly around the windowed interior of the bridge, doing some sort of cleanup task. His head seemed weighed down by some invisible force. “What’s with him, Rog? He doesn’t look good.”
“Yep, Debbie Downer up there is having some chick issues. I got on his case about how depressing he was as a docent, so he livened it up a little, but I think it really takes it out of him to fake being all peppy. He barely says a word to me between cruises.”
Joe frowned. “Chick issues?”
“Yeah, we had this good-looking girl working for us—another parolee he met named Sophie—but when she found out about his family, she ditched him. You never told me his name was Grant Barberi, by the way.”
Tensing immediately, Joe tersely replied, “It’s not. His name is Grant Madsen.”
“Well, Sophie Taylor ain’t buying it. She was one pissed-off woman, let me tell you—screaming at Grant about how he lied to her, acting all scared of him.”
Joe grimaced. No wonder Grant was so upset—his family had taken him down once again. But losing his girlfriend would be nothing compared to the loss Joe had to share with him next.
“Listen, Rog, I’ve got to give Grant some bad news, and I don’t think he’s going to take it so well. Can you cover for him if he can’t fulfill his docent duty for your next cruise?”
“What the hell do you have to tell him that would knock him on his ass like that?”
“Just give us some time while I go talk to him.”
“Sure,” Roger said.
Joe made his way to the bridge and stood in the entryway for several moments before Grant noticed him. Finally cracking a smile, Grant uttered a relieved “You came back” before allowing his uncle to draw him into a hug. The younger man leaned into his father figure, comforted by the familiar sight of his khaki uniform and the smell of Safeguard soap.
“Of course I came back. I had to see my favorite nephew.” Joe swallowed hard. The only nephew I have left.
“Rog did say you might be coming for a visit. It’s great that you made it.”
“Yeah, I had a flight planned for tomorrow, but I bumped it to today.”
“Why?”
Joe cleared his throat. “I needed to tell you something.” Looking steadily at his nephew, he added, “Captain Lockhart called me today.”
“How is the captain, sir?” Grant asked warily.
“Not too good after what he saw today. Listen, Grant, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just come out with it.” Joe drew in a deep breath and averted his gaze, suddenly unable to look into his nephew’s cool gemstone eyes. “Logan is dead,” he said quietly.
Grant gasped, slowly taking a step backward, his horrified eyes blinking not once. “What? How?”
“They found him near Great Lakes.” Joe swallowed again, and his jaw flexed forcefully, attempting to hold in his emotion. He’d already cried enough on the plane, his face turned to the window. “Somebody stabbed him to death, Grant.”
Joe watched his nephew’s face crumple. His lips quivered, and his eyes filled with glassy tears. “No,” he moaned, still stepping back to rest against the console.
Joe desperately wanted to take the pain away, but he couldn’t. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, feeling helpless.
“When?” Grant rasped.
“They found his body this morning.” Joe leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. “I couldn’t believe it when Archie called me—I still don’t believe it.”
Grant didn’t believe it either. “Why?”
Joe stared into his glistening eyes. “I don’t know. I assume his gambling debts finally caught up with him.”
Feeling his legs give out, Grant slid down the console onto the floor, just like he’d done during his tequila stupor a month ago, and his body folded onto itself, his elbows settling on his knees and his forehead resting on his crossed arms. He looked down, watching his tears plop onto the white floor. His brother was gone. The brother he hated—the brother he loved.
Suddenly a paroxysm of guilt pierced him as he remembered his last words to Logan: I wish you were dead.
Grant’s body shook with wracking sobs.
* * *
Parole Officer Jerry Stone met Detective Marilyn Fox in the Gold Coast district, on the cobbled street outside the Taylor home. She had a uniformed police officer accompanying her, and the three made their introductions while taking surreptitious glances at the large home on their left.
“Thank you for your help with this case, Jerry.” Marilyn nodded while shaking his hand.
“It’s not too often a parole officer becomes part of a murder investigation, but I’ll do what I can,” he said.
“Well, you’ve saved me some time already by providing addresses and background information over the phone. Speaking of time, I still have to get to my key suspect before the afternoon is over, so let’s head in there.”
The three were buzzed through the heavy wrought-iron gate, and once they climbed the stairs to the porch, the front door was opened by a nervous woman with long strawberry-blond hair and classy clothing. Behind her stood a distinguished, graying man.
Sophie’s eyes widened when she saw her parole officer on the doorstep, and she anxiously opened the door wider, stepping back to allow the police to enter the foyer.
Jerry shut the door behind them. “Taylor, this is Detective Marilyn Fox from Great Lakes. Detective, Sophie Taylor.”
“Jerry, it’s Grant isn’t it?” she cried immediately. “He’s dead.”
“Grant? No, it’s not Madsen,” Jerry said.
Sophie breathed in huge gulps air, overwhelmed by her relief, and she grabbed her unsuspecting parole officer in a hug. Jerry stood awkwardly for a moment before giving her a few light pats on the back, trying to comfort her. Over her shoulder Jerry aimed an embarrassed glance toward the older man glaring at him. “I’m her PO,” he explained.
Will felt a mixture of sadness, anger, and confusion as he watched his daughter turn to another man, seeking solace. He should be the one soothing her, not that damn parole officer. But he had no idea why Sophie needed comforting in the first place. Who the hell was this Grant character? Will had just arrived home from work, and Sophie had not had time to explain why the officers had come to question her.
Marilyn watched the scene with curiosity, unsure why a parolee would be so familiar with her parole officer.
<
br /> “Why did you think Grant was dead?” she asked once Sophie released her hold on Jerry.
“Who is Grant?” Will demanded.
Sophie bit her lip and avoided her father’s stare. Marilyn and Jerry realized the construction magnate had no idea about the love triangle his daughter was embroiled in. This could get interesting.
“Mr. Taylor, is it?” said Marilyn. “We need to interview Ms. Taylor. Is there some place we could speak with your daughter privately?”
“Uh, I guess you could use my office,” Will offered tentatively. “Um, no, wait, it’s too much of a mess in there,” he quickly amended with a nervous smile. “How about we go to the living room? This way.” He pointed to a room off the foyer.
The detective gave him an unnerving stare. “We need to interview your daughter separately, sir,” she clarified.
“I’m not letting you talk to these cops without my attorney present, Sophie.”
But Sophie felt comforted by Jerry’s presence. He would look out for her. “It’s okay, Dad. I haven’t done anything wrong.” Except fall in love with another criminal, she thought.
“Mr. Taylor, we’d also like to speak with you after we question your daughter,” Marilyn informed him. “Could you please get some coffee for us in the meantime, sir? Officer Gonzalez can help you.” She exchanged a knowing glance with the uniformed officer next to her. He was to babysit Will Taylor without allowing him to overhear the interrogation of his daughter.
Will hesitated. “Do you know why my daughter went to prison, Detective?”
“Yes, sir.” That is why we’re here, Marilyn mentally added.
“Then you’ll understand my reluctance to have her implicated undeservingly in yet another legal matter.” He gave his daughter a stern look. “Sophie is a good girl, a law-abiding citizen. She just falls in with the wrong boys.”
Watching Sophie roll her eyes, Jerry stifled a laugh. That was the understatement of the year.
“And I will not have her carted off to prison again when she’s totally innocent.”
“I understand, Mr. Taylor,” Marilyn said. “We just have some routine questions for her. Please, sir, the sooner you let us begin, the sooner we’ll be out of your hair, and you can both get back to your lives.”
With Good Behavior [Conduct Series #1] Page 34
