With Good Behavior [Conduct Series #1]

by Jennifer Lane

  Marilyn felt a little guilty watching Grant react to her cruel words, but like a good detective, she soldiered on. “Do you wish to change your earlier statement about Sophie being completely innocent?” she asked.

  “No, ma’am,” Grant choked out.

  “Okay then. You were saying about Wednesday night?”

  Grant closed his eyes and nodded, clenching his teeth. “She, um, Sophie, cooked me dinner, and we were having, uh, dessert when Logan showed up.”

  Scribbling notes, Marilyn urged, “Go on.”

  “Sophie had just told me about the man who stashed money and guns in her office, leading to her arrest, but I had no idea that man was Logan. And Sophie had no idea Logan was my brother. That all changed when he showed up. We all figured out the connection—and Sophie ran out of there as fast as she could.

  “Logan actually didn’t know Sophie went to prison and lost her license because of him. What a freaking idiot.” Then realizing he’d insulted a dead man, Grant added, “Sorry.”

  “You were angry with your brother for what he did to Sophie?”

  “I was furious, ma’am,” Grant said.

  “You two had a fight?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “He gave you that shiner?”

  Grant brushed his fingertips across the bruise, and suddenly his eyes got big. “I know how this looks, but I didn’t kill him, I swear!”

  “Relax, Mr. Madsen,” Marilyn said. “I was already aware of the bruise from Officer Stone. You told him about it on Thursday morning, remember?”

  Grant nodded, relieved.

  “Did your brother hit you anywhere else, Mr. Madsen?”

  Grant reluctantly nodded again. “Yeah, on my side.”

  “May I see the damage?” Marilyn asked. It was a routine question, but she could not deny her eagerness to see the sculpted body hidden beneath his white button-down shirt.

  Grant loosened his shirt from his black pants and lifted the shirt-tail to reveal an angry deep-purple contusion over his left ribcage.

  Jerry whistled through his teeth. “Maybe you should see a doctor about that, Madsen.”

  “I’m okay,” he countered, tucking his shirt back in. His father had done worse to him as a kid.

  “The bruises on Mr. Barberi’s face—you gave those to him?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  “Did you hurt him anywhere else?”

  Grant looked sick. “I punched him in his stomach once, but he probably didn’t even feel it. He was the muscle in the family—he fought for a living.” As Marilyn noted this information, in a small voice Grant asked, “Did Lo feel any pain, ma’am?”

  “I don’t really know.” Taking a deep breath she added, “The autopsy will tell us more.”

  The coroner had informed Marilyn that time of death was somewhere between 0900 and 1300 on Thursday morning. They would likely narrow that window after the autopsy, so her next questions about Wednesday night were crucial.

  “What happened after you and Logan fought?”

  “I told him to leave, but he wouldn’t. Then I told him …” Grant stared out at the water for a few moments. “I told him I wished he was dead.”

  Marilyn watched his eyes well up with tears again. Complicated grief, she thought. She didn’t know if Grant would ever recover from Logan’s death, given his last words to his brother. And both Sophie and Grant were either not guilty of murder or they were the dumbest criminals known to humankind. Between Sophie informing the detective that Logan needed to “go down” and Grant telling her he wished his brother was dead, both parolees had completely shot themselves in the foot.

  “We all say things we regret,” Marilyn offered, trying to get the suspect back on track. “I suppose Logan left your apartment after that comment?”

  Grant swiped at his cheek and nodded. “Yes, ma’am, he left.” He took several deep breaths, trying to compose himself. “After that I tried to go to sleep, but I finally gave up around oh-five-hundred and went for a run on the lake. I took a shower, and I still didn’t know what to do. That’s when I went to see Officer Stone.”

  “And I told you to go to work,” Jerry chimed in. “Did you do that?”

  “Yes, sir. I came straight to work, and I was here until my shift finished at twenty-hundred.”

  “What time did you arrive here yesterday morning?” Marilyn inquired.

  “Uh, however long it takes to walk here from the courthouse—maybe nine-twenty-five or so?”

  “Can anyone verify that you were here?”

  Grant nodded vigorously. “Yes, ma’am. Roger was here too.”

  “We’ll be speaking to him shortly to check that out.” Marilyn snapped her notepad shut and returned it to her jacket pocket. She looked into Grant’s troubled eyes. “So, Mr. Madsen, despite you having two powerful motives, it appears you have an alibi for the time period in which your brother was murdered.”

  Grant’s shoulders drooped and he exhaled loudly. He looked out the window to the deck below, finding Joe looking up at him. Grant nodded, trying to reassure his uncle.

  Marilyn bit her lip. “I’m wondering, who do you think might have killed your brother?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. Joe thought it might be somebody Lo owed money to. He, uh …” Grant looked down. “He had a gambling problem.”

  “Any ideas who he owed money to?”

  “You found him near Great Lakes, right?” Grant asked. When Marilyn nodded, he said, “I was wondering about the lieutenant who won a hundred-thousand in a poker game at Angelo’s club that night two years ago. That was the money I was supposed to go and steal back when I screwed up and got arrested.”

  “Yes, Officer Stone was telling me you were extorted by Logan to pull that crime? That he threatened to kill your Uncle Joe unless you complied?”

  Grant swallowed, looking at Jerry. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Why didn’t you report that to your attorney? Or to the prosecutor?”

  “It’s water under the bridge, Detective.”

  “But it’s not too late to see if you can get your sentence revised. Perhaps you could even get your parole dropped if you get a sympathetic judge.”

  Grant contemplated her words, then aimed a sardonic half-smile at Jerry. “But then I wouldn’t get to see Officer Stone every week, ma’am. I wouldn’t get to be slammed up against the wall, handcuffed, drug tested. I wouldn’t get to hear how I better not hurt Sophie …” His smile abruptly vanished. He had indeed hurt Sophie, just as Jerry predicted.

  “It does sound like good times you’ve shared with Officer Stone,” Marilyn teased. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to give that up.” Then she advised, “I want you to be careful in the next few weeks, Mr. Madsen. Until we find Logan’s killer, nobody is safe.”

  Grant nodded, looking again at Joe on the deck below. “I think my Uncle Joe will stay with me for a few days, at least.”

  “I need to get down there to interview your boss,” Marilyn said. “Well, Mr. Madsen, I’ll keep in touch as the investigation continues. Take care of yourself.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  After Marilyn left the bridge, Jerry turned to Grant. “Madsen, what Detective Fox said about Taylor—it wasn’t entirely accurate.”

  “Sir?”

  “When we arrived at her house, I guess all she knew was we were there to question her about a murder, and for some reason she thought you were the one who’d been killed. She was freaked out, but once she found out you weren’t the murder victim, she was totally relieved. She even, uh, gave me a hug.” Jerry blushed.

  For one blessed moment Grant felt the heavy load, which had been crushing him from the second he found out about Logan’s death, lift off his chest. Sophie still cared about him!

  “Are you trying to steal my girlfriend, sir?”

  Jerry grinned. “I just thought you’d want to know.”

  “I did. You just made one of the worst days in my life a little better,” Grant replie
d, staring solemnly at Jerry. “Thank you.”

  They both looked down at Marilyn talking to Roger and Joe.

  Grant sighed. “I guess Joe and I will have to plan the funeral.”

  33. Casting a Pall

  Grant had not seen his uncle in his dress blues since he was a teenager, and he felt a childlike awe at how distinguished and powerful Joe looked in his commander’s uniform: gleaming silver buttons and all the insignia and honors befitting the Vietnam War hero. No longer a lieutenant, Grant was relegated to the black suit, light-blue shirt, and black tie Joe had purchased him for the occasion.

  Uncle and nephew—father and adopted son—walked the center aisle of St. Monica’s basilica. Joe had not left Grant’s side since Friday afternoon, and he continued to hover, guiding Grant toward one of the front pews on this Monday afternoon. Grant could not help but scan the mourners scattered across the pews, but there was no sign of her. He knew Sophie was unlikely to attend Logan’s funeral, but he searched for her all the same.

  “Are you sure you can do this?” Joe asked as they were seated.

  Grant sighed. His uncle had been second-guessing their decision to serve as pallbearers once the mass was finished. “I have to do it.”

  “No, you don’t,” Joe countered.

  “I already know you don’t like me near my uncle and cousin,” Grant assured him.

  “That’s not what I’m worried about.” Grant looked at him quizzically. “It’s an honor to be a pallbearer, Grant. But it’s also … it’s tough. It stays with you. For a long time.”

  Grant looked down at his hands, knowing immediately what his uncle referred to. Joe had been a pallbearer at Karita’s funeral, while twelve-year-old Grant watched from afar, too young to participate. Seventeen-year-old Logan and fifteen-year-old Carlo had joined Joe in carrying his mother’s coffin, though, along with three other men from the family. Grant had never felt more alone.

  “I want it to stay with me,” he quietly responded.

  In the narthex of the church, Angelo stood in the shadows and watched his son haughtily stare at the pews in front of him, a small smile on his face as he observed Grant conversing with Joe. Just as Carlo shifted forward, ready to pounce, Angelo stepped out and caught him by the elbow.

  Surprised, Carlo hissed, “Let go.”

  “I told you not to go anywhere near Grant,” Angelo said. “What part of maintain a low profile don’t you understand?”

  Carlo’s eyes smoldered. He hated a low profile. He was the reason behind this funeral, and he craved the spotlight to showcase his cunning and bravery. Instead, he had to slink in the shadows. It was so unfair!

  “Grant Pants has no fucking clue, padre,” Carlo reasoned. “He’s too blinded by his pussy tears to see what really happened.”

  Angelo slid his firm grasp up his son’s arm a few inches and clutched the skin and bone there tightly. Carlo gasped and his father knew he’d located the scar tissue on his son’s arm—where he’d been shot twenty-two years ago, when he’d been ten years old. When he’d screwed everything up for Enzo.

  “Grant has a college degree,” Angelo whispered.

  Carlo clenched his teeth. This again. His father would never shut up about him dropping out of college.

  “Don’t underestimate him. Once things settle down, he might figure out it was you.”

  “He should be the one in prison, charged with murdering his brother,” Carlo grumbled. “Anyway, I can’t stay away from him if we carry the fucking casket together.”

  “It would be too obvious if you backed out now, and that’s why you’re going to remain a pallbearer. But play it cool. That broad over there is the detective investigating the murder, remember?”

  Carlo shifted his gaze and caught a glimpse of reddish-brown hair. The woman subtly scanned the funeral guests, taking in everything. Carlo swallowed hard.

  “Unless you want to end up like Enzo, I suggest you take my advice,” Angelo hissed, squeezing the scar one last time before releasing his son’s elbow.

  Carlo straightened his black suit-jacket and whispered, “Will Uncle Enzo be here today?”

  Angelo sighed. “Word is he’s in solitary for hitting a guard—the one who told him his son was murdered.”

  Carlo felt his neck tense, as if his uncle’s strong hands were holding him by the scruff of the neck like they had when he was ten, when Enzo found him in the Fanocelli house. Carlo’s one regret in murdering Logan was the possibility that Enzo might find out he was the killer. He knew he was a dead man if that ever happened.

  “He’s going to miss his own son’s funeral,” Angelo muttered.

  But Enzo’s grandson would not be missing the funeral. Ben entered at the rear of the church, a few steps ahead of his mother, who frowned when she saw her son making a beeline toward his relatives.

  “Ben,” Angelo said. “Come è il mio favorite sixteen year old?”

  Ben closed his tired eyes as his great-uncle wrapped him in his strong arms. “Fine.”

  Carlo grabbed the boy next, thumping him on the back. “You haven’t been over to the compound all weekend, ragazzo.”

  “Sorry,” Ben said, glancing furtively behind him as his mother approached.

  “Ashley.” Angelo nodded respectfully at the blond-haired woman. “My condolences.”

  She stared warily at the men, and Carlo added, “We have seats saved for you next to us.”

  Ashley nervously wrung her hands. Meeting Angelo’s coal-black gaze, she pleaded, “Please, um, Godfather. Please give us some time. We need some time alone … some time to grieve.”

  A flash of anger coursed through the Mafia don. Ben was part of the family—the only connection left to his beloved Logan, now that Carlo had so unceremoniously wiped his godson from this earth. But the fear and worry evident in Ashley’s begging blue eyes dissolved his anger into a feeling that bordered on sympathy. Angelo’s own son had caused Ashley and Ben such pain, and perhaps they deserved some time to recover.

  “Of course, Ashley.” Angelo smiled and took a slight step backward. “We are here for you and Ben, though. Please know that.”

  “Thank you.” Turning to her son, she gently urged, “C’mon, Ben.”

  “But I want to sit with the family,” Ben argued with a twinge of whine.

  Carlo jumped in. “Yeah, we need to stay together.”

  Angelo placed his arm across Carlo’s chest. “It’s okay, Ben,” he assured him. “Go with your mother. We’ll see you after the mass.”

  Ben hesitated for a moment, then followed his mother down the center aisle.

  Marilyn watched this interaction between the Barberi men, wishing she could’ve heard what they said. Her interviews with Angelo and Carlo Barberi had not been fruitful, and she sensed they were hiding something. Her investigation was at a standstill, and with each passing hour the odds of finding the killer decreased substantially. Former Lieutenant Adam Gottlieb, the officer who’d won money from Angelo’s club and had stashed it in the bar near Great Lakes, had been discharged from the Navy following Grant’s break-in, and no one had heard from him since. He was her only remaining lead, and it was turning up cold.

  Swiftly passing, Ashley barely registered seeing the detective—the woman who had informed her and Ben of Logan’s death two days ago. She’d witnessed Ben begin to destroy their apartment upon learning of his father’s murder, furiously throwing books and vases and candles against the wall before collapsing to the floor in a heap, weeping uncontrollably.

  Ashley blocked Ben’s breakdown from her mind as she moved toward the one man who seemed like a haven amidst the Barberi family. She had noticed his closely cropped black hair the moment she entered the church, and his presence calmed her immediately.

  “Grant?” She approached his pew with her son in tow.

  He glanced up and drew her into a hug. “Ashley.”

  She melted into his strong arms, instantly comforted by his masculine sandalwood scent and tender yet firm hold. She th
en stepped back to allow uncle and nephew to reunite. They had not seen each other since Logan’s death.

  Grant studied his nephew, and Ben felt a hitch in his throat upon meeting his uncle’s desolate stare. He averted his gaze, angrily stuffing his fists into his stupid black suit-jacket, feeling strangled by the even dumber black tie.

  “I don’t know about you, Ben, but I’ve been a total mess since Friday. I, um, I can’t stop crying,” Grant said.

  Ben was astonished that his uncle—a grown man, a man who’d been in the Navy, who had gone to prison—would admit to crying like a little boy. But as Grant’s eyes began to mist over with tears, Ben’s welled up also.

  “I’m so sorry, Ben.” Grant sighed, emotion coloring his smooth voice. “I’m sorry we both missed out on having Lo in our lives. But I do know he loved you, his only son—he loved you so much, Ben.”

  Ben took a shuddering breath and shuffled forward, pulled into the waiting embrace by his uncle’s soothing words. Watching the tall man clinch the boy in his arms, both Ashley and Joe felt a lump in their throats.

  Grant took a deep breath as he gestured behind him. “I want you to meet my Uncle Joe. Um, Joe Madsen, this is Ashley Fredrickson and Ben Barberi.”

  Joe shook Ashley’s hand. “I wish we’d shared the pleasure of meeting before today.”

  “Me too.” Sadness filled her eyes. “I wish Logan would have stayed with you, instead of running to Angelo. Maybe we wouldn’t be at his funeral right now.”

  Ben narrowed his eyes at his mother—why was she ragging on Angelo like that? “I deeply regret letting Logan go,” Joe said. “But if he’d stayed with me, he might never have met you, Ashley. And then you wouldn’t have created this wonderful young man here.”

  Ben shifted from one foot to another, embarrassed with three sets of adult eyes trained on him. Joe offered his hand, and Ben extended his tentatively. “I’ve heard so many good things about you from Grant, Ben,” Joe said, smiling warmly.

  Taken aback by the kind words, Ben abruptly withdrew his hand and returned it to his pocket. Remembering his late night with Nick and Dylan, Ben hoped he didn’t smell like pot now that he was standing by the uniformed man.