by Wendy Tyson
The thought made Mia nauseous. “Unless the Gretchkos were getting back at her father for something,” she said.
Frist nodded, put the binder down on his desk. He chewed on his lip again. “I suppose she could have seen something she shouldn’t have. Mobsters don’t like loose ends.” He shook his head. “If that’s the case, my condolences. Your girl is a goner.” He picked up the file in front of him, turned it over.
“Thanks,” Mia said, barely managing to hide her fear and disappointment. She was terrified for Tammy. “I appreciate your time.”
“You’re welcome, Ms. Campbell. And I gave you an extra eight minutes because your questions were reasonable and you’re an acquaintance of Thomas Svengetti. Use the information wisely.”
Twenty-Seven
The Benini bottling facility was on the outskirts of town, along a creek that fed into Cayuga Lake. Set back from the main road, its grounds were a rolling vista of green fields and manicured shrubbery, but the building itself was a nondescript vanilla rectangle surrounded by a nearly empty large parking lot. Vaughn pulled in between a silver Saab and an older-model Subaru Impreza. Allison counted nine cars in the lot.
“I guess they’re not operating because of what happened to Maria,” Allison said. “But someone’s here.”
Vaughn nodded. “Maybe the plant manager and a few office and maintenance crew.”
Allison nodded. She’d been thinking along the same lines. She and Vaughn climbed out of the car and walked toward the front doors. Two empty picnic benches sat in front of the entrance, a metal garbage container with an ashtray lid between them. The ashtray overflowed with butts.
Allison eyed the mess. “Someone’s slacking on the job.”
“Or there are lots of raw nerves around here.”
“Guess there would be.” Allison pulled open one of two glass doors that led to the interior. Inside, a tiled reception area contained a half dozen wooden chairs.
A reception window with sliding glass doors faced the entrance. A bottled blond with thick tortoiseshell eyeglasses hanging from a black beaded chain looked surprised to see them.
She said, “Delivery?”
Allison shook her head. She closed the space between the entrance and the receptionist’s cubby and held out a business card. “Allison Campbell. My colleague Vaughn and I were hoping to talk to the plant manager.”
The woman eyed them with wary indecision. “The plant’s closed.”
“Is it normally shut down on Wednesdays?”
“No.” The woman looked uncomfortable. “There’s been an accident. The shutdown was precautionary.”
Allison nodded in sympathy. “That’s actually why we’re here. I was hoping to talk to the plant manager, please, Ms.—”
“Stacy. I don’t know if he’s even in.”
“It’s important, Stacy. Please.”
The woman’s lips tightened into a rigid line. She picked up the phone, dialed five digits and waited. After a second, she said, “Lou, some people are here to see you.” After a few seconds of listening and a sideways glance at Vaughn and Allison, she said, “No, not cops.” She glanced down at Allison’s card, still in her hand. “An image consultant.” Looking confused, she said in answer to a question Allison couldn’t hear, “I have no idea, Lou. You’ll have to ask her yourself.”
The woman hung up. “Well, he wasn’t expecting that. Give him five. He’ll see you.”
Five turned into twenty-five, but eventually a thin-faced man in a red Polo shirt bounded out to meet them. He had tiny, beady brown eyes that danced around as much as he did.
“Lou Strickland.” He held out a pale hand, knuckles covered in brown fur. “Plant manager.” He looked around quickly, eyes shifting from spot to spot. “Plant’s down today. Bad day yesterday. Real bad.”
Giving the staring receptionist a quick glance, Allison said, “Mr. Strickland, is there somewhere private we can talk?”
“Yeah, yeah. Stacy, we’ll be in the lunchroom.”
The receptionist nodded as they passed behind reception and into a broad cafeteria-style space. Two refrigerators sat against one wall next to a cabinet with a sink, water dispenser, and two older-model microwaves. Another cabinet on an intersecting wall held three coffee machines, Styrofoam cups and boxes of sugar, artificial sweetener, stirrers, and cylindrical containers of artificial creamer. Three vending machines occupied the other wall. Rows of tables took up the rest of the room. Lou sat down at the table on the end, closest to the door, and gestured for Vaughn and Allison to join him.
“Want something to drink?” he asked, looking ready to spring up at any second.
Vaughn waved a hand. “No, thanks. We just want to ask you a few questions about Maria Benini. About what happened here yesterday.”
Lou shook his head rapidly, a gesture of nervousness or habit, Allison wasn’t sure. “Yeah, yeah, a tragedy,” he said. “Never thought I’d see something like that.”
“Can you tell us what happened?” Allison asked.
“Yeah, I guess I can.” He shrugged again, the knobs of thin shoulders bobbing underneath his shirt. “I’ll tell you what I told the reporters.”
“You spoke to reporters already?” Vaughn said.
“Yeah, of course. Today. Small town. People want to know when an accident like this occurs. Bad for business, of course. But we’re the main bottler in this area. Even Maria’s death won’t change that.”
“So, the police are sure it was an accident?” Allison snuck a glance at Vaughn, who was looking intently at Strickland. “No sign of foul play?”
“If there was, no one has said.” Strickland shook his head, grimaced. “Truth? I question how it happened. Maria is—was—almost a savant when it came to mechanical stuff. She knew how things worked around here. And even though it wasn’t her job, she’d fix stuff if required. All kinds of stuff.”
Vaughn said, “Was she here every day?”
“Not every day. She came when the mood struck her.” He rubbed his eyes, looked away.
Vaughn raised his eyebrows. “Was she on the payroll?”
Strickland started to respond before clamping his jaw shut. He looked back and forth between Allison and Vaughn, grappling with a decision.
Finally, he huffed out a dramatic sigh. “Why are you here?”
With a darting glance at Vaughn, Allison said, “Maria was my client’s niece.”
“Francesca?” Strickland’s eyebrows knitted into a perplexed frown. “Francesca was working with you?”
Allison nodded. “Maria called me shortly before she died. She had something to tell me, but she never got the chance. Vaughn and I were surprised to hear about her death.”
“You and me both.” Somewhere in the plant, metal clanged on concrete and Strickland jumped. “I can’t understand how it happened.”
Vaughn shifted in his seat. “Was there an explosion, Mr. Strickland?”
“No, not exactly. Maria was in the boiler room, checking out a gas leak. While she was in there, the boiler blew.” He shuddered. “I’m afraid Maria didn’t have a chance.” Closing his eyes against the memory, he shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was heavy with regret. “She was basically steamed to death, Ms. Campbell. Which is why I have to believe it was an accident. Only a soulless being would do something like that.”
“Were you here that day, Mr. Strickland?” Allison asked.
Strickland nodded. “I was in an employee meeting when it happened.”
“Did you see anyone here who shouldn’t have been here?”
“The alarms sounded, it was chaos.” Beady eyes bounced between Allison and Vaughn. “I wouldn’t be able to tell you if anyone out of the ordinary was here that day. Too crazy.”
“How about the family? Dom or Alex?”
“They’re usually at the corporate offices.”
> “So you didn’t see them here that day?”
“Not that I recall.”
Allison turned to Vaughn. “So no family, other than Maria.”
“And Simone.”
“Simone? Does she work here?”
Strickland gave a short, raspy snort. “Oh no, of course not!”
“Then why was she here?”
Strickland shrugged. He tried to look nonchalant, but red cheeks gave him away. “To see me, I guess. Sometimes she visits. Just to say hello.”
Hammond’s Coffee Shop was tucked between a used bookstore and a high-end clothing boutique. The interior was dominated by a large wooden bar with a cash register at one end. Tables sat too close together in the back, next to the bathroom. Allison ordered two coffees and she and Vaughn took a seat against the wall, waiting for Razinski. Next to them, four women chatted about kids, wine, men. Two dark-haired, one blonde and one curly-haired brunette, all forty-something, seemingly happy to be together. Allison tried not to listen to their conversation, but in the tight space, she couldn’t help overhearing. It was a lot of talk about nothing, and Allison felt a stab of envy.
She wanted to curl up with Jason and talk a lot about nothing. Not kidnapping, murder, shady business dealings, explosions, just...nothing. But until they could put this one behind them, that wasn’t to be. And now that Jason was angry with her, she was afraid it was never to be. So Allison sat, listened, and waited, trying desperately to shove aside her growing anxiety.
Razinski finally showed up fifteen minutes late looking like he’d just swallowed rancid milk. “What the hell do you two think you’re doing?” He pulled up a chair, turned it backwards, and without ceremony, plopped down on the empty side of the table. “Talking to the family, traipsing around on private property, asking questions of infirm old men?” Seeing Allison’s surprise, he said, “Yeah, that’s right, I know about all of it.”
Not all of it, Allison thought. She met Razinski’s gaze, at the same time placing a calming hand on Vaughn’s knee. “Francesca is my client. Last I checked, I wasn’t doing anything illegal by asking questions. And as for the Benini estate, we had permission to be there.”
“You’re interfering with a police investigation.”
Allison worked hard at not rolling her eyes. “Funny, when we last spoke, you weren’t actively investigating Francesca’s disappearance because there were no—and I quote—‘suspicious circumstances.’”
Razinski looked down at his hands. Allison saw fingernails chewed to the quick, peeling cuticles. Something had Razinski on edge, something other than a disappearance lacking any hint of suspicious circumstances.
Vaughn said, “Perhaps something’s changed, Detective?”
“Look, you two,” Razinski sighed, running a hand through razor-short hair, “I’m doing you a favor, believe me. Go home. Leave this to the professionals.”
“What about Maria?” Allison said.
“What about her?”
“She’s dead. You don’t think it’s odd that she died shortly after that call to me?”
“Local police think it was an accident.”
“Bullshit,” Vaughn said.
Razinski held up a hand. “Don’t start looking for conspiracies, Mr. Vaughn. The facts are pretty simple. Paolo Benini had a stroke, became incapable of running the family business. In the midst of the stress, the family loonies came out of the closet. Francesca, Maria. And now I’m dealing with that mother, Simone. Who the hell knows, or cares, what the family dynamics are? We checked out the cabin your Maria claimed—”
“She wasn’t our Maria,” Vaughn said.
Razinski ignored him. “The locals checked out that cabin on the property. Nothing. No sign of anyone held captive, now or in the past.”
Allison thought of the reference to “Gina” scribbled in that bathroom. She considered mentioning it, but one look at Razinski’s face, at his obvious determination to make this series of events into nothing more than a string of coincidences, and she decided to keep mum.
Apparently Vaughn had the same thought. He stayed silent, too—although he radiated an angry energy that Allison could practically feel in the charged air around them.
“So why are you here then, Detective?” Allison asked quietly. She kept her gaze locked on Razinski’s, even when he tried to look away. “If this all amounts to nothing more than one crazy family’s antics, or a series of coincidences, why drive all the way to New York? It’s not even your jurisdiction.”
“Paperwork. Follow-up. Administrative stuff.”
His eyes shifted to the left and Allison knew he was lying. But why? And why bother to orchestrate this meeting?
Razinski said, “You’d better learn to live with coincidence, Ms. Campbell. Because there is an awful lot of coincidence surrounding your name.” He looked pointedly at Vaughn. “And around your colleague here.”
Allison tightened her grip on Vaughn’s knee, both to quiet him and to control her own blossoming irritation.
“You think we have something to do with this?”
Razinski continued looking at Vaughn. “I think you should go home and let the professionals handle things.”
“Is that a threat, Detective?” Allison’s eyes narrowed. How dare he insinuate that he would focus on First Impressions, on Vaughn, if they didn’t back down?
Razinski gave her a hollow smile. “It’s not a threat, Allison. Your boy here has a past. Juvenile records might be sealed, but some of what he did happened when he was eighteen, nineteen. Did he tell you that?”
“I know what he did.”
“Drug deals, theft, more than kid stuff. He may be all cleaned up now, but it doesn’t take much for a jury to remember. Prosecutors have a knack for making sure the media digs.”
Razinski didn’t look like a man who relished bullying. In fact, he spoke with an almost apologetic tone. Nevertheless, Allison shook her head back and forth, anger giving way to rage. “More threats. Our involvement wouldn’t bother you so much, Detective Razinski, if this was as simple as you’d like us to believe. But it’s not, is it? And somehow our presence is complicating things.”
“Only for the family. Let them be, Allison. You, of all people, should understand how hard this must be.”
Allison took a long, hard look at the detective. Was he simply saying that she, as an image consultant, should bow to etiquette and leave the Benini family alone? Or had he done some digging on her, too? Did he know about her own family’s past, her work with another teen, so long ago? Her dealings with the McBride family? Were his words a veiled threat, or was she seeing conspiracies where there were none?
Allison thought of Francesca, her determination to lead the family business back to health. No, she wasn’t imagining conspiracies. Something was as fishy as a back alley in Chinatown.
Allison said, “Certain family members should be prime suspects.”
“What proof do you have that the Benini family has done anything wrong?”
Allison opened her mouth to answer, then shut it just as quickly. For what real proof did she have? None.
“Just as I thought.” Razinski stood. He studied Allison for a long second before turning his attention to Vaughn. “You should heed my warning, Mr. Vaughn,” he said, his tone stern. “A man like you has a lot to lose. Stay out of this one. Go home.” He pushed his chair backward, causing the legs to squeal violently against the flooring. The women at the table nearby turned around. Razinski didn’t seem to notice, but when he spoke again, his voice was kinder. “Go home and return to your brother and your life.”
After he left, Allison and Vaughn lingered. Allison’s head hurt, the pain behind her temples quickly spreading to the rest of her skull and extending its grip around her neck. She pulled Excedrin out of her bag—all she had with her—and popped two capsules with the remainder of her coffee. She hoped
the medicine would quell the coming storm.
“Razinski did his homework,” Vaughn said.
“He’s dealing with a disappearance and possibly a murder. Of course he did his homework.”
Vaughn shook his head. “Doesn’t add up, Allison, and you know that. Razinski acts like there really is nothing to investigate. But then he digs into our backgrounds?” Another head shake. “I want to hate the guy, but I really don’t think Razinski’s a bad cop. He’s caught up in something bigger than him. Someone is pulling his puppet strings.”
Allison thought about the difference between the Razinski she’d met originally and this Razinski. Vaughn was right. The guy seemed squirrelly, edgy even. That was not the calm detective they’d met immediately after Francesca’s disappearance. His behavior today did seem odd.
“When I think puppet,” Allison said, “the first thing that comes to mind is Mob.”
“Which would explain a lot of things, including the detective’s behavior.” Vaughn rubbed his eyes.
“Problem is, we’re drowning in facts with no clear connection between them, especially if you throw Tammy into the mix.”
Vaughn nodded. “But if someone’s pressuring Razinski, then the most likely candidate is organized crime. Who else has that much clout and span of control?”
“Politicians? Government?”
“Simplest answer, Allison. Mafia.”
Twenty-Eight
Allison was tired of driving back and forth between the Finger Lakes region of New York and her home in Villanova, so she and Vaughn found an inn near Ithaca. Ironically, it looked much like the Benini estate, with its neo-Gothic façade and sprawling interior, only newer and full of charm, no shadows. Allison paid for two rooms, thanked the very young and very pretty receptionist, and led the way down an interior hallway toward the guest suites. She wanted a hot bath and some time to think.
