The Homecoming

by Carsten Stroud

  I apologize for intruding upon your grief at this unhappy time. I am in possession of details relating to your husband’s death which may be of advantage to you. If you wish to inquire into my credentials contact Warren Smoles of the law firm Smoles Cotton Heimroth and Haggard at the number below.

  I offer my counsel in this matter as a courtesy and will not accept any sort of payment for my advice, now or at any time afterwards.

  Our conversation will of course remain completely confidential. I ask only an hour of your time as soon as you may be able to receive me. I ask you to consider that time is an issue.

  With sympathy and respect,

  Mr. Harvill Endicott

  Private Collector and Facilitator

  The note had been accompanied by a return envelope and a blank reply card. Mr. Endicott had provided no hotel suite or business address or cell number. Not even an e-mail address.

  Delores had read the note a couple of times, considered calling Frankie’s personal legal adviser, and then realized that Julian Porter was not now, and had never been, a friend to her, nor had he ever shown any interest in her other than the forty-seven times he had tried to get her into bed.

  So she called Warren Smoles, who had been front and center at the whole Galleria Mall fiasco. Smoles seemed to be distracted—he was in a public place and he was being shouted at—nevertheless, he found time to express, in a rich baritone, his boundless regard for Mr. Endicott and all his good works.

  Delores put the phone down and googled “Harvill Endicott.” The search returned nothing.

  She called Warren Smoles back and advised him of this, to which he replied that of course there would be no online traces of Mr. Endicott since his services were of a confidential nature and that his nonexistence in the Google-verse was an indication of his discretion and exclusivity.

  This was also why Mr. Endicott did not reveal his location or details other than in person and then only after mutual trust had been established.

  Delores consulted a martini or three on the matter and decided to take a leap and see this Harvill Endicott person.

  The narrative of her husband’s death, and that of Little Ritchie, was, in her opinion, crafted by the police to put Frankie in a bad light and portray him as the victim of his own volatile temper.

  However, Delores, no fool, found this narrative totally persuasive—Frankie’s crankie-wankies were legendary in his business circles. But if there was information floating around that might undercut this interpretation, and perhaps lay the groundwork for a massive lawsuit, which she was already contemplating, then she was happy to hear it.

  By return courier, she invited Mr. Endicott to call upon her in her rooms on the Pinnacle Floor of The Memphis at seven o’clock Friday evening.

  In the note, she informed him that, due to the nature of her late husband’s business concerns, he would be subjected to a rigorous body search by the security personnel in the lobby, for which she apologized in advance. She had sent the note off two hours ago, and had received a reply within the hour, in which Mr. Endicott expressed his extreme pleasure at her acceptance and confirmed that he would call upon her at the appointed hour.

  Which was about a minute from now.

  And the phone on Frankie’s desk commenced to ring. The security detail down in the lobby had just admitted a Mr. Harvill Endicott to the elevator floor and did Miz Maranzano wish them to send this person up.

  “Have you searched him?”

  “Quite thoroughly, ma’am. Do you want one of us to come up and stay with you during his visit?”

  The guards downstairs were neutral—they worked for whoever was paying the condo fees—but they lived for gossip to retail to the local media, and Maranzano gossip was the finest around.

  “No thank you, Michael. Send him up.”

  She reached over to Frankie’s iMac and turned on the video feed from the lobby. It showed a tall, well-dressed older man in a navy blue pinstripe and a white shirt. He was looking into the camera as if he were aware that he was being watched and wished to convey how harmless he was. He had a long, pale face and deep-set eyes and a general air of bookishness. He entered the elevator and, after a swift ascent, arrived on her private floor a minute later, where Delores watched as he walked across the complex tiles of her foyer and rang the bell.

  Frankie had been lying on the huge white leather sectional that dominated the living room. At the sound of the bell, he erupted into a fit of hysterical yapping that reminded Delores that she was sending him to the vet in the morning to have his vocal cords clipped.

  She crossed the immense white carpet that helped to quiet the echoes of this minimalist suite, booted Frankie briskly in the slats, and opened the door. Mr. Endicott stood in the warm pool of light from the fixture above the door and smiled back at her, his expression one of amiable interest.

  “Mrs. Maranzano, a pleasure,” he said, a slight bow without offering his hand. “I am Harvill Endicott. Thank you for seeing me.”

  “Not at all,” she said, stepping aside and watching as he took in the suite.

  “Magnificent,” was all he said, thinking classic goombah baronial as he waited for her to direct him to a destination.

  “Let’s talk in Frankie’s office, shall we?”

  Endicott followed her delightful ass and her swinging hips with real enjoyment. She was wearing a tight black leather skirt and a scarlet leather jacket and the soles of her black stilettos were also a vivid scarlet.

  She got him seated in one of Frankie’s Eames chairs and took her place behind the desk. She pressed a button and a silver tray laden with ice, decanters of various liquors, and mixes arose through the top of a credenza behind her.

  “Would you like something to drink, Mr. Endicott?”

  Endicott, who was sitting with his legs crossed and his long-fingered hands resting in his lap, shook his head.

  “Sadly, my constitution does not tolerate alcohol. I metabolize poorly.”

  “Some Pellegrino, then?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  Frankie Il Secondo appeared at Mr. Endicott’s feet and glared up at him. He twitched, growled, showed his needle teeth, farted with intent, and sat his bony ass down, radiating bug-eyed hostility. Mr. Endicott returned the look with interest, and then focused again on Delores, who was upright in the chair and watching him over the crystal brim of a glass full of gin and tonic.

  “So,” he said, “to business.”

  “Yes. I’ll go first. Was my husband’s death the result of police incompetence?”

  “You’re contemplating a suit, I take it?”

  “I’m undecided.”

  “Then I’d recommend against it. I have listened to the radio conversation between the officers on the scene and, to be direct, your husband was firing on a police detective when he was shot. He was warned twice to cease and desist, but he continued, and was duly shot dead by a police sniper. This is an inconvenient element that seems to be, in this case, incontrovertible. Issues such as this have been tried in civil litigation many times. The result is usually a massive expenditure of time and treasure on the part of the plaintiff which accomplishes nothing but the further enrichment of a battalion of lawyers. I am not here to counsel such a course. Indeed, given your current vulnerable circumstances, I would strongly advise against it.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Your husband’s business affairs are in a transitional phase, I would expect.”

  “What do you know about my husband’s business affairs?”

  “A great deal, since I am routinely employed by men who are in the same business. And I have done researches of my own, of course.”

  “Yeah? And even if I knew what you were talking about, so what?”

  “I know your position is precarious. Wives are often faced with uncertainty in transitions such as this one. No doubt you are worried about it right now. You need not be. In fact, I believe you stand on the threshold of a great opportunity
. But decisive action is required.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “As I’ve said, I’ve looked into your husband’s affairs and it’s clear that his various partners across the country have doubts about your ability to run Mr. Maranzano’s portion of the conglomerate with the same vigor and decisiveness that he was able to command.”

  “If you’re saying they think I’m a greedy Spic whore who needs to be kicked to the curb, or worse, you’re right on the money.”

  “Just so. And you’ve been wondering what to do about it?”

  “Of course. I’d be crazy not to. And I’m still waiting to hear something useful from you.”

  Endicott sipped at his Pellegrino, glanced down at Frankie Il Secondo, who, although tiring rapidly, was trying to maintain his malevolent glare while puffing out a steady stream of lethal emissions. Endicott briefly considered dropping the heavy crystal tumbler on Frankie’s bony skull. He looked up and smiled at Delores, who may have been reading his mind.

  “Here’s my advice to you, ma’am. Avenge him.”

  “Avenge Frankie? You mean, go after the guys who killed him? The guys who killed him were cops.”

  “I do mean precisely that.”

  “Okay. You are fucking bats.”

  “Not in the slightest. The specific officer who shot your husband is a rogue cop responsible for the deaths of four police officers several months ago. Do you remember the First Third Bank in Gracie? It was robbed of over two million dollars?”

  “Frankie said he wished he’d done it himself.”

  “The man who engineered that robbery and executed four police officers who were pursuing him is the man who shot your husband.”

  “The sniper?”

  “Yes. Staff Sergeant Coker of the Belfair County Sheriff’s Department. He is an accomplished marksman and a decorated law enforcement hero. He is also, in my opinion, a dangerous psychopath.”

  Not that there’s anything wrong with that, Endicott was thinking. Nothing more steady and reliable than your true psychopath. Endicott had realized long ago that he was one himself.

  “You know all this?”

  “I am utterly convinced of it.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  Endicott smiled, took a sip of Pellegrino, and used his foot to gently edge Frankie Il Secondo a few inches farther away. Although the dog was apparently asleep, his emissions were proceeding apace, leading Endicott to reexamine his views on cap and trade.

  “I don’t wish to prove it in a court of law. I wish to confront Staff Sergeant Coker and his accomplice and extract the two million from them, a process I do not intend for them to survive. In return for your assistance in the area of men and materials, I am prepared to share the proceeds of this project with you.”

  “I see. And what’s my end?”

  “For one evening’s work you receive one hundred thousand dollars, a mere bagatelle, I acknowledge. What is most vital here is that you are seen to swiftly and decisively avenge the death of your husband and his grandson. This will also bring home to your husband’s retainers the realization that you are every bit as ruthless as he was. Frankie’s business associates will duly note the implications and I believe they will accept that the transition of power here from Frankie to his widow will be in their interests, if they do not wish to provoke a shooting war, which is in no one’s interest. You will come into secure control of a business which my research leads me to estimate to be in excess of thirty million a year. And all this in exchange for one evening’s work performed by people already in your employ. It would be what the French call a coup de main. It would be bold and audacious.”

  “My husband’s friends might just think I’m as fucking nuts as you are.”

  “Perhaps. But they will also fear you, and the most important component of respect is fear.”

  She liked that argument, he could see.

  But she was still wavering.

  “And if I tell you to get lost?”

  “Then I will promptly get lost. I will pursue other means to achieve my goal. But you will remain in a precarious position here, one that might prove fatal. As I said, decisive action is required.”

  “You’re totally fucking nuts, aren’t you?”

  “Not at all. And I’m in deadly earnest.”

  “How do I know you’re not an FBI asshole?”

  “Your point is well taken. If we can reach an understanding, I can provide persuasive credentials. I assure you I am merely a private facilitator.”

  She laughed.

  “Yeah. And you want to facilitate yourself into a cool million five. If you know made guys, why not go ask them for help? Why come to me?”

  “The gentlemen who sent me here have no intention of sharing the two million with me. They are of the view that the stolen money belongs to them. I am merely an employee. A manservant.”

  “They’re not going to be happy if they think you fucked them.”

  Endicott was amused to see the true gutter girl emerging here. It pleased him to see that Delores Maranzano was as much a thug as her husband. He knew how to do business with thugs.

  “They’re in Leavenworth and likely to stay there. Leave them to me.”

  Delores was quiet for a while.

  “When do you want to do this?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon. I have studied the property in question. It will require forceful people to accomplish this. Your husband has people who are capable of being hardhanded?”

  “Four of them are ex-Army contractors who worked for Blackwater. The other two are related to Frankie by blood. They’re all pretty skilled.”

  “Can you command them?”

  “I never tried. They’re Frankie’s people.”

  “Are they nearby?”

  “They all live in the building.”

  “How many are available now?”

  “Six guys usually. Five right now. Manolo’s in Ibiza on a holiday. He’s flying back tonight.”

  “What would it take to have them shift their loyalties from Frankie to you?”

  She shrugged.

  “The contractors are freelance. They’d have to believe that I can run Frankie’s end of the business. That they’ll still get paid. Manolo and Jimmy are relatives. Don’t know which way they’d jump. Mainly, they’d all want to see that I’ve got the balls to keep the business going.”

  “Then we need to persuade them of that.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “Invite them up for drinks.”

  “Right now? Right this minute?”

  “Yes.”

  “What have you got in mind?”

  “A demonstration.”

  Good News Never Arrives Wrapped in a Baby Blue Folder with a Gold Seal

  Nick called it a day around nine and left Mavis and her people working the forensics angle at the Motel 6. He got the Crown Vic rolling and called Kate to see if there had been any sign of Rainey yet. She answered on one.

  “Where are you?”

  “Southbound on Gwinnett—”

  “Are you heading home?”

  “Yes. Anything on Rainey?”

  Kate laughed, but not a funny kind of laugh. It was more of a snarl.

  “Oh my yes.”

  “Is he there?”

  “Nope.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

  That stopped him.

  “What is it?”

  “Oh no. I’m not going to tell you over the phone. I want to see the look on your face.”

  Nick came in the door and found Beth and Kate and Lemon Featherlight sitting around the dining room table and staring at a sheaf of papers folded in three and wrapped in a pale blue binder with a gold seal on it. There was also an open bottle of champagne on the table. It was empty, but a second one was chilling in an ice bucket on the sideboard. From the state of their glasses, they were well along the way to Blessed Oblivion. From the looks on their faces,
they were doing the right thing.

  Nick sat down at the far end and looked at the three of them, and they looked back at him.

  “Okay. What’s in the blue wrapper?”

  Beth shook her head.

  “No. First, have a drink. Lemon, pour the man a stiff one.”

  Lemon got a fourth flute from the sideboard, popped the cork on the second bottle of Veuve Clicquot, and filled Nick’s glass.

  “Mine too,” said Kate, and the way she said it let Nick know she was a little bit tipsy.

  “Me too,” said Beth. “And don’t forget your own.”

  Lemon shook his head.

  “Can’t. Got to get some sleep. I have a meeting early tomorrow, down at Lady Grace.”

  “With who?” Nick asked.

  “Whom,” said Kate.

  “It’s about the bone baskets,” said Lemon. “The expert from UV is coming down.”

  “What are bone baskets?” asked Beth, speaking as carefully as Kate was.

  “Long story, Beth,” said Lemon. “Maybe we better fill Nick in on this thing here,” he said, tapping the blue packet. Nick picked it up.

  “It’s a subpoena, looks like.”

  “More or less,” said Kate. “You’re gonna love it. We’ve all read it with great interest. Go on. Open. Enjoy.”

  Nick unfolded it and laid it out.

  NOTICE OF HEARING:

  EXIGENT CIRCUMSTANCE APPEAL

  IN RE RAINEY TEAGUE ET AL

  An informal hearing will be held on Monday at 10:00 A.M. before Judge T. Monroe to hear arguments and rebuttals regarding the continuation of custodial care under respondents listed:

  KATHERINE ROSEMARY KAVANAUGH

  NICHOLAS MICHAEL KAVANAUGH

  WHEREAS a Writ of Exigent Circumstances Child Endangerment concerning the custody and guardianship of Rainey Teague alleging physical and mental abuse and exploitation of fiscal assets by the above listed respondents and associated parties (see addendum) including but not limited to the Niceville Police Department, the Belfair and Cullen County Criminal Investigation Service, and the Law Practice of KAVANAUGH LLB ET AL.