“You come down here from your fancy headquarters and try to project a machismo that just isn’t you. Your low self-esteem—”
Leone moved in close. He extended his arm, his hand balled into a fist. He dropped it to his side before making contact with Clinton. “You’re not worth it.”
“If we’re finished here…” Clinton walked away.
DETROIT, MICHIGAN
“YOU WANT ME TO KILL YOUR SON?” Did I hear him correctly?
Pietro gestured for his men to leave the room. “You will if you want your family back.”
I didn’t want to get involved in the middle of a blood feud for supremacy. The way the Don looked at me, I really didn’t have a choice.
“I want him to know it’s from me. But,” he said, accompanying his words with a pointed index finger. “You will make it appear as an accident to police. You will also make it clear that he killed the Governor. He acted alone.”
The overall directive came across as complicated. I had to mentally break it down into components and go from there. However, with the blame directed to Christian, I would be in the clear and my family would be returned to me.
“I want this taken care of by first thing tomorrow morning.”
His words made a grown man want to cry. My eyes were burning from exhaustion, and my limbs were dragging. Basically, I remained on the same twenty-four-hour deadline Christian had imposed upon me.
“I can tell you are tired. You have that half-mast thing.” Pietro rolled his hand. The door opened as if on cue. One of his men walked in with a glass of cloudy water.
“You drink,” Pietro said.
There was one thing I had learned early on. The Don tells you to do something, if you valued your life, you’d do it. I reached for the glass.
“All of it.”
I drained the liquid. The texture was chalky. I handed the glass back to the man who had delivered it to me. His nose sat crooked on his face as if it had once been broken yet never reset.
“Now you will wake up.” Pietro paced a few steps, a smile pursing his lips. “You have much work to do.”
Crooked Nose went to the door and held it open.
My time in front of the Don had expired.
I tested my limits. “There’s one more thing…” I hadn’t trusted that Christian took care of it. “I need your help with something.”
-
Chapter 41
NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK
SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 5:00 PM
CLINTON RESENTED THE FACT HE had to take part in the door-to-door canvassing. He’d rather be in company with the Governor of New York finding out why he and Behler had met at Casa Grande—whether it was for business or pleasure.
Clinton had gut feelings about the entire situation, and it told him there was something larger going on. Of course, he had nothing tangible to prove his theories besides an increasing stack of speculation and coincidences.
They had obtained entry from the manager of the apartment complex, a ruddy man in his late forties. He was more than enthusiastic to help with the investigation of a home invasion—a lie told to cover up the real purpose—although the way he watched them, Clinton suspected his imagination had run off. His expression clearly read, a little overkill for a B & E. He pranced around their feet like an eager puppy working for adoption.
“You can go back to your apartment now. We’ll call you if we need anything,” the junior FBI agent said, as he put a hand on the man’s back gently attempting to prod him into submission. This was the same agent who was in the room at the hospital, taking direction from Leone.
“Sure.” The building manager’s shoulders sagged as he left them.
“I didn’t think the leech would ever leave us to do our job,” Agent Leone said.
For once Clinton smiled as the result of the man. Maybe he wasn’t that bad after all?
“I say we all split up. Wingham, why don’t you take the fifth floor, Clinton the fourth, and Bakker and I will share the third.” Agent Leone spewed the directions as if he was in charge.
Clinton let him have this one moment and consented with a nod. He noticed the sideways glance from his partner who seemed shocked that he didn’t protest. She lifted her eyebrows when Clinton remained silent.
“Okay then.” Wingham was the first to break away from the group.
DETROIT, MICHIGAN
12 HOURS UNTIL THE DEADLINE
MY LEGS AND ARMS WERE energized with a slight tingling sensation. I worked through it and made it back to the car where I momentarily stared across the massive parking lot of the racetrack.
Pietro had commissioned me to kill his son, the one man whose life I had saved many years ago. If only I had let him die then everything would have been different. The great irony presented itself as a stinging slap across the face.
Speaking of which…a hand went to my cheek where Pietro had struck me twice. The reflection in the rearview mirror disclosed a blotchy, flushed cheek. I rubbed it as if it would somehow reverse time and the predicament I was in.
Pretty much the same deadline. Another mission.
As the pins and needles sensation worked through my system, I felt more alert. Even my burning eyes were better. Whatever it was that Pietro had given me, I could use some at tax season when there were too many clients for the amount of time.
My business…Tomorrow was Monday, and I wouldn’t be in. Not that I needed to make excuses when I was the boss, but Serena would likely be getting curious about my whereabouts. I never took more than a day off since I opened the doors fourteen years ago.
Christian’s words came to the forefront, you would be nothing without me. I made you who you are.
The hell he did! I studied hard for a year to obtain my accountant license, a feat that would take most years to accomplish.
Had he sent me all my clients? I highly doubted that. But he had confessed to one of my largest accounts—that of Rose Buds—Behler’s business.
My heart sank as I thought once again of my family, not that I ever actually forgot about them. But the only way I could function was to allow those thoughts to seep into the background so I could deal with the present and get them back safely.
Before I left, I watched Pietro slip out a back door with the Governor’s phone clenched in his hand. An unmistakable scowl marred his expression, and he spoke in mumbled Italian. He would leave to grieve his son. Betrayal equated death. And soon enough he would have a body to accompany the philosophy.
I reached into the glove box and pulled out a small plastic container for a memory card. I held it up to the afternoon sunlight. I smiled at the irony. My bargaining chip had been a chip. The phone Pietro had from the Governor contained everything this chip did. I wasn’t stupid enough to give the man nothing, but from the text message I had received before going into see the Don himself, it provided me a form of protection.
I slipped the card into the slot on my phone and re-read the text, even though its message was clearly etched in my mind.
“Is the Bluebird going to nest with the Robin?”
Maybe to most people this wouldn’t mean anything, but I knew something was going on. It was only further confirmed by the sender’s name—Lorenzo Ferrero. Pietro was an avid fan of Ferrero’s opera composition. And Pietro always mentioned Rimbaud, ou le fils du Soleil from 1978. The name of the opera meant Son of the Sun.
As for the rest of the cryptic message, I did a quick Google search for state birds. Bluebird represented the state of New York, while the Robin, Michigan. It didn’t take long to piece it together. Pietro was conspiring with Governor Behler to work at getting the Governor of New York, Talbot, on board with something. And as soon I figured out the password to the file, I might be closer to figuring out what.
I placed the phone down in the console. As I did, my hand brushed the gun in my holste
r. Pietro’s men had returned it to me before I left. I put the car into gear.
Whatever was about to go down, it wouldn’t be pretty.
-
Chapter 42
NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK
SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 5:45 PM
AND THIS IS WHY CLINTON hated door-to-door canvassing. It reaffirmed the craziness of the human race. Not that anyone could really define normal, however, most people never approached the wavy line.
The fourth floor held nothing but a lot of dead ends because mostly no one was at home. There used to be a time when people went to church Sunday morning and then stayed home in the afternoon and evening.
Clinton lifted a hand to knock on the last door. The door had opened before his arm dropped back to his side. The woman on the other side wore a plain black shirt with a gray-pleated skirt. She assessed him from his scuffed shoes to the slacks and jacket he wore. She smiled. “I have religion.”
He found it interesting that was her first reaction. “I’m not here about that—”
“Why not? Everybody needs something to believe in.”
How old was this woman anyway? She only appeared to be in her mid-to-late thirties, but her words spoke of antiquated tradition. The Bible and religion were for older people weren’t they?
Clinton pulled his badge. “We’re here—”
“We?” The woman tucked out into the hall and did a quick look. “I only see you.”
“Detective Clinton.” He paused assuming she’d cut in with something to say. Surprisingly she didn’t. “We’re investigating a break-in. Did you see anyone in the building you never saw before?”
She tucked an escaped strand of strawberry-blonde hair behind an ear. “I don’t let anyone in this building.”
Clinton picked up on her awkward mannerisms, the shifting on her feet, the fidgeting with her hair, topped off by a defensive statement. He needed her to keep speaking. He contemplated how Wingham would approach this. Empathize. “Ah, someone looks trustworthy, you open the front door. People don’t know all their neighbors these days.”
Her eyes shifted. She conceded with a nod.
“So you know what I’m talking about?”
“I never knew someone’s place would be broken into.”
Oh, it was a lot worse than that. Clinton needed to tighten his jaw to avoid saying his thought aloud.
“He looked like a Bible-thumper,” she said.
It had been a long time since he’d heard that phrase. Clinton studied the woman before him. If anything she would fit that description.
“I let him in.”
“What did he look like?”
She seemed surprised that he didn’t react differently. Clinton thought she looked like she expected chastisement.
“I don’t know…that was around noon.”
Bingo!
“What time?”
“I was heading to an afternoon Bible study group.”
“Did you see what floor he went to?”
“No, I was already down the sidewalk when he went through the door.”
“And you don’t remember what he looked like?”
The woman crossed her arms. Clinton noticed the defensive body language. This woman held a lot of guilt but was it truly deserved or self-inflicted from religion? At least that’s how he viewed things. He grew up a devout Christian but couldn’t stomach feeling bad about things all the time. His parents believed in confessing all sins no matter how small. And for imperfect beings that tally would go on indefinitely.
“He was rather attractive. Dressed nice in khakis and a Polo shirt.”
“Did you notice a Rolex watch?” Clinton asked.
“No, I don’t think so. As I said, I thought he was here about the Bible. And people in this building need that, Lord knows. The drugs and loud parties—”
“Was he tall, thin, short, overweight?” Clinton redirected back to the investigation.
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Clinton took a deep breath. “I’m not saying you did. I just need your help right now.”
“Average height, relatively attractive. He filled out the jacket nicely—”
Clinton’s cell phone rang, and he debated whether to answer it. Little Miss Religion just seemed to be opening up. He held up a finger, but she slunk back into her apartment a few inches at a time. By the time he got his phone off the clip, she was behind her door with it cracked open only a few inches.
“Remember God. He hasn’t forgotten you.” She closed the door on him leaving him in an empty hallway.
Clinton ground a heel into the floor. “Shit!”
“That’s one helluva way to answer your phone.” It was Wingham.
“I was this close…” He held his fingers pinched to within three-eighths of an inch as if she could see. “To getting an ID.”
“Well, I’ll trump that. Get up to the fifth floor. I’ve got the shooter’s apartment.”
-
Chapter 43
DETROIT, MICHIGAN
SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 5:45 PM
CHRISTIAN HATED HOW BERTO SKULKED around like a man who had lost his dog. Ingo had been a valuable asset at one point, but his usefulness had expired. Christian didn’t owe an explanation to anyone as to why he had him executed by the girls. He had directed Berto to clean them up and put them in new chokers. His countenance shook but Christian convinced him the girls would still be full. He would be safe.
Nothing on the news indicated the death of the Governor, only reports to the contrary about how she was on the mend. He hated thinking about that traitorous, hypocritical bitch clinging to life. Her nine lives should have been exhausted by now. Surely, she knew her time would come. One never associated on the fringe of The Family for long before being cut off as a useless tentacle.
He didn’t understand how Pops couldn’t see the grander picture. His vision was archaic while Christian foresaw the future. They didn’t need dignitaries or authorities to dictate how they ran their operations. They didn’t need the government absorbing their profits in taxes. And they most certainly did not require an outside liaison to take care of business. He could have handled that himself. Why send the servant when the master would have much more impact?
One strength of those in the public eye, however, was they were accustomed to structure and being provided with direction. They just had to remember where the power came from—yet they often forgot.
Christian leaned against the wall of the wash bay watching the pink water flush down a floor drain. Berto wiped an arm across his forehead and continued scrubbing the dogs. He refused to look at his boss.
Christian respected that aspect of the man. He never confronted him or questioned any directives. He jumped like a seal for a fish any time a situation required it. Almost as loyal as a dog, but less intelligent.
The clock moved at too fast a pace for Christian’s liking. His contacts in Niagara Falls were limited. And he didn’t need to be involving his New York connections until everything had worked out. When the timing was right, he’d call for them. Right now, he had other things to take care of. And thanks to Ingo, Hunter would have likely figured out his family was being held at this airport through the proof of life video. Christian realized the irony of the situation and it caused him to smile. Maybe Ingo never had to die, as Christian himself exposed the location by bringing out the boy.
Oh well…
He had many more Ingos waiting for recruitment. Eager men seeking to find some sort of redemption always found their way to him. There would be a new era and Christian would be the ruler. The ones who didn’t bow to him would be eradicated.
-
Chapter 44
DETROIT, MICHIGAN
SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 5:45 PM
LESS THAN 12 HOURS UNTIL THE DEADLINE
&nb
sp; THE CONCEPT OF BEHLER WORKING with the Russos didn’t make sense to me at first. But as I drove, recent events composed a picture. Behler was in New York to make Talbot see the benefits of aligning with the Mafia, possibly through blackmail. Maybe they were using threats against his family too.
Talbot’s face had read of discomfort being in Behler’s company. He avoided eye contact and withdrew. When I had pulled my chair in, I remembered him moving back; the legs of the chair had made noise against the hardwood. It wasn’t until right now, I realized my slip-up.
Shit!
I pounded the steering wheel. Governor Behler had introduced me by name. By now I was certain Talbot knew the town I was from. He could have shared this information with the police or Feds investigating the shooting. My thoughts whirled and melded. How could I have screwed up this badly?
I tried to convince myself that I had planned on taking care of it the first time, but the fact that I hadn’t affected my ego. If only I had managed to put this behind me with one bullet, instead of two. Would that have made a difference?
Before leaving the parking lot, I had turned on the radio, but no news reports came on. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, the Governor was on the mend. And, unfortunately, that world included Christian.
A job that had presented itself as a one-time-handle-it-and-be-done-with-it had turned into the worst possible nightmare.
If Christian knew his old man had planned a meeting between the Governors, using Behler to manipulate Talbot by some means, he must have pissed himself with glee when I picked the date and location for the hit. It was obvious Christian wanted to take over as the head of The Family, but why wasn’t he going about it directly and killing Pietro? I knew the answer. He wanted to feel in control, a director of events, a master of ceremonies.
I swerved the car into my driveway and walked through the front door expecting the smell of decomp to plaster my sinuses. Instead, a strong chemical odor filled the air. Pietro had things taken care of, and it would have been handled discreetly by his men who were specialized in this area.
Assassination of a Dignitary Page 18
