by Wendy Tyson
Svengetti vanished down the portal. Jiff went next. Mia hesitated. Once down there, what was to stop Svengetti from locking her in...or worse? How well did she know this man? Suddenly the outrageousness of her situation slammed her in the face like a rock.
Clearly sensing her hesitation, Svengetti said from below, “I didn’t invite you into my life, Sunshine. You’re free to go at any time. You want some answers, come down. You want to take your chances on your own, go ahead. Your tail is gone. Drive home and stay safe like I told you yesterday.”
Mia had come this far. She started down the steps to whatever lay beneath.
It was an underground apartment. Thick concrete walls encased a three-room bunker. The steps led into the first room, a ten-by-twelve living space with a futon, mini-kitchen, and small table and chairs. The ambience was pure Man Den.
Room two was a tiny bathroom with a toilet, sink, and floor with a drain. Overhead was a shower nozzle that would convert the whole room into a shower. A red First Aid kit was attached to the wall over the sink. The bathroom smelled of disinfectant and menthol.
The third room was a twenty-foot supply closet. Mia got only a cursory glance inside before Svengetti closed the lead-lined door, but in those seconds she saw boxes of canned goods, freeze-dried foods, and bins of neatly stacked medical supplies: antibiotics, syringes, tranquilizers, allergy medication, iodine, and other Armageddon necessities.
The man was ready for anything. Mia looked at him sideways, doubt creeping along the edges of her mind again. This wasn’t simply the doings of a man with a vendetta against the Mob. This was a paranoid person’s fantasy home. Was Svengetti mad?
Her senses on high alert, Mia followed Svengetti into the sitting area. He pulled out a kitchen chair. Mia and Jiff sat on the Futon.
“Before you get any ideas about me, I didn’t build this place. I bought it like this from someone far more paranoid than me.”
“Killmore?” Jiff asked.
Svengetti nodded. “Another colleague in the fight against organized crime,” he explained to Mia. “But he added a healthy dose of Book of Revelations crazy to the mix. Convinced America would be the target of a nuclear rogue state, he spent twenty years building this place.”
“The supplies look new,” Mia said.
“Some are mine, others I inherited.”
Jiff spoke. “Killmore died in a car crash eighteen months ago.”
Svengetti nodded. “Left his bunker and the game of chance took over.”
“Mob again?” Mia asked.
Svengetti and Jiff both shook their heads. “Drunk. Hit a tree head-on,” Svengetti said. “Paranoia fed by alcoholism. His widow sold me the house. She’d never bought into his theories. I paid cash. Zoning board doesn’t know about this underground playground, and the little missus gets herself a nice condo in Boca. Win-win.”
“So you hide out here as well as in the Poconos?”
Svengetti smiled. “Let’s be clear, I’m not hiding anywhere.”
“Then why go to the trouble and expense?”
Svengetti glanced at Jiff. Jiff nodded. “Because when the shit hits the fan, I will need somewhere to stay. And this is as good a place as any.”
Mia raised her eyebrows. “When the shit hits the fan? Sounds like you’re expecting something to happen.”
Svengetti glanced at the clock on the microwave and Mia followed his gaze. 2:12 a.m. Svengetti looked back at Mia. “Oh, I’m expecting that something will happen. And you and your friends just may be the catalyst.”
“What does that mean?”
Svengetti rubbed his face with two burly hands. Mia noticed the lengths of his fingers, the widths of his palms. Strong hands, steady demeanor. This was a man on pursuit and Mia, for one, wouldn’t want to be in his way. At the same time, there was something incredibly masculine and safe about Svengetti.
She realized with a start that she trusted him.
Svengetti put his hands down, resting them on the wooden seat arms, and sank back into his chair. The air in the bunker was stale. Beside her, Jiff fidgeted in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his legs and eventually settling for crossed arms and a sour facial expression. Everything about Jiff screamed “leave me alone.” But given what he’d been through, she could forgive his rudeness.
“When you arrived yesterday morning, I had a hunch that perhaps you were on to something. Young girl goes missing, boyfriend’s father is an employee at the landfill. Did time in jail. A definite gopher for the Gretchko family. And why would they need a gopher unless they were back in the game.” He stretched, yawned. “But none of that spoke to me.”
“Then what did?”
“When I spoke to Frist, he told me about the son. The fact that he was caught dumping.”
“That seems like kid stuff. Why would that be more of a red flag than anything else?”
Svengetti turned to Jiff, who was busy examining his nails. “Care to elaborate, Michael?”
Jiff looked up, bored. “The family is officially out of the business. On the books, they look clean. Even the Attorney General has dismissed them as a threat, for the most part. But if you wanted to stay in the business without risking any attention whatsoever, what might you do?”
“Something so underground that no one would catch you.”
“Or?”
How, indeed? Mia’s tired brain turned over the options. “Pay someone else.”
“That’s part of it.”
Mia thought about criminals, about some of the worst offenders and how they got away with their crimes. Serial killers, child molesters, white collar embezzlers. She said, “Do it out in the open.”
“Exactly.”
Svengetti stood, paced the length of the room. “You see, the kid, his ties to the family, it all got me thinking. What if they’d branched out. Into something invisible.”
“Something like toxic dumping?” Mia asked.
“Yes, exactly. Your boy’s actions were small stuff. Meant nothing. But what if it had been a test. Would the authorities notice a little pharmaceutical waste in the local streams? How much could they get away with before some environmental watch group started screaming?”
Jiff nodded. “There are some incredibly rural areas around here. The people are poor, and there are no rich yuppies calling the EPA when their creek smells funny. Companies get away with shit. But most would rather not take the chance.”
“So they hire a third party,” Mia said.
“Exactly.” Svengetti pointed up, toward the ceiling. “Companies can’t have illegal dumping on their books. The Mobsters don’t want anything traceable. Everyone wins.”
“Except the environment.” Mia stood, hands on hips. “It happens in plain sight, and no one’s the wiser—unless they’re caught in the act.”
Svengetti said, “Yep.”
“But what does this have to do with Tammy Edwards, her disappearance?”
Svengetti and Jiff looked at each other. Mia could have sworn Jiff shrugged, but the gesture was so subtle she might have inferred rather than seen it.
Finally, Svengetti said, “Probably nothing.”
“Then why would someone bother following me?”
The two men exchanged another glance. “We’re not sure it was the Mob following you.”
“I don’t understand.”
Svengetti looked apologetic. “I was following you, hoping your questions had raised some interest. Something we could latch on to. Someone has been tailing you, only we don’t know who.”
Jiff said, “What else have you been doing, Mia? Who else might be following you?”
Mia thought about Francesca Benini. Could it be related? But she hadn’t been involved with the Benini family. She’d stuck to the kid, Tammy Edwards. And anyway, she wasn’t ready to mention Francesca to these men. They clearly had their own a
genda, and she wasn’t divulging more until she had a chance to talk with Allison and Vaughn.
She shrugged. “Nothing, exactly.”
“That’s a half-assed response, Mia. We’ve been forthright with you. We were hoping you’d be forthcoming, too. Whatever else you’ve been doing could be connected to the Gretchko family. That’s why I wanted to talk with you.” Svengetti glanced at Jiff. “That’s why Michael finally agreed, too.”
Jiff said, “You could be in danger. These aren’t nice people.”
Mia thought back to the events of the last few days. “Did you run the plates?”
“Registered to a rental company in Pennsylvania.”
“If it’s a rental, it could be the Gretchkos.”
Jiff said, “Not really their style to simply follow you.” He glanced at Svengetti, who nodded for him to continue. “When the Tarasoff family was around, accidents happened, if you know what I mean.”
“But it’s possible it’s them. Especially if they were hoping I’d lead them to something.” Or someone, she thought.
Svengetti said, “Possible, yes. Probable, no.”
“Can you at least tell me the make of the car?”
Svengetti sighed. “Common vehicle.”
“Just so I know what to look for.”
“You’re out of your element. Sometimes it’s better to be oblivious. Like Michael said, you could be in danger. If I tell you, you’ll start to see it everywhere.” He sighed again. “Believe me.”
Mia pleaded with her eyes. “Tell me.”
Jiff said, “A white Honda Accord.”
Thirty-Three
The local library was a plain brick building, tall and modern in its dimensions. Allison had found the online index and, notes in her pocket, asked for the microfiche room. She followed the young librarian through a cavernous reading room, past the children’s section and into a small room at the back of the building. The room was warm, even with air conditioning, and had no source of outside light.
“Do you know what you want?”
Allison pulled out her notepad and handed the woman the list.
The woman raised her eyebrows. “All of them?”
Allison nodded. “’Fraid so.”
Allison placed her purse under a chair and settled in at one of the machines. The innkeeper had driven her to the car rental shop first thing this morning. She’d wanted to be at the library as soon as it opened, so she’d have time to look into the key before her dinner with Alex this evening.
The librarian returned with sheets of microfilm. After a quick tutorial, Allison was left alone in the room. She took a deep breath and began reading.
After an hour, she looked up. Still alone, she pulled the notebook next to her and began to make notes. Nothing on Gina Benini. Benini Industries was mentioned in a number of local papers, especially when the bottling factory opened in 1982. Before that, the company was largely an importer and distributor, so the launch of the factory meant jobs, and the local media like stories about jobs.
But none of the stories discussed the Benini marriage, or Gina’s suicide—which seemed odd, because the media liked a sordid story even more than a good news story about jobs. The Beninis seemed like an important family with a robust company and an interesting history. Francesca was related to royalty, after all. Why not write about them? Unless the Beninis didn’t court the limelight, which, considering Francesca’s eccentric refusal to leave the house, made sense.
One feature, written in 1983, after Gina’s death, included a picture of the Benini family taken some years before, sans Francesca. In the photo, Paolo stood behind Gina. He looked handsome in brown pants, a crisp white shirt, and sports coat. A thin mustache graced his upper lip, and his patrician nose and serious, coal-nugget eyes stared straight into the camera. A man of his word, a man of business, proclaimed the photo. Gina Benini sat on a wooden armchair in front of Paolo, her arm around a young boy of about nine or ten—Dom. Both mother and son wore wooden expressions—mouths that smiled, eyes that remained flat and cold. Another boy stood several inches away, closer to his father than his mother, but apart from both. He had his arms pressed against his sides. His mouth was turned down, but his eyes were alive with mischief.
Young Dominic. Young Alex. Such a contrast.
Allison stared at that picture. Dom looked much the same. He had his mother’s features and his father’s serious demeanor, even at that fledgling age. Although younger, Alex was nearly as tall as his brother, and gangly. He held his face at an angle, away from the camera. But the camera caught a glint of those knowing, perpetually-amused blue eyes. No smile—just those eyes.
On impulse, Allison hit the print button.
She moved on to the bakery owned by Gina’s brothers, Enzo and John.
She’d found several articles on the Fireside Bakery fire, short pieces that she picked through like a scavenger hunting for scraps of information. She pieced together what she could. The fire had devastated the bakery, the building burned to the ground, only the stone foundation remaining. And John had been hurt in the blaze. If authorities knew what had caused the blaze, the papers didn’t say. In fact, circumstances were suspicious enough to warrant an investigation by the police and the bakery’s insurance company. The news reporters didn’t come out and say it, but it was easy enough to read between the lines. Suspicion of arson.
Allison read through the last few articles. Nothing more about the fire investigation. One piece discussed area restaurants and noted the permanent closure of Fireside Bakery. The other was a five-line notation in the real estate section about the purchase of the “old Crayton farm” by the Pittaluga brothers. A quick county check told her they paid $475,000 for the property, and that was years ago. Zillow said the property was worth $1.3 million dollars today. A small fortune then, a small fortune now.
How the hell had two destitute bakers from another country purchased a farm worth that much money? Had the brothers ultimately received a settlement? But the bakery couldn’t have been worth a half a million dollars back then. Maybe Paolo had lent them money?
And then there was the fact the bakery burned down less than a year before Gina Benini’s death. Related?
Allison was starting to see connections. And she didn’t like where they were headed.
She printed off the articles she’d been reviewing. She tucked them and the photo of the Benini family into her purse. A glance at her watch said she had plenty of time to make another stop before her dinner date. The key would have to wait. She grabbed her purse and left.
It was eleven o’clock the next morning when Mia arrived at Vaughn’s apartment. He answered the door wearing nothing but boxers and a gray t-shirt, sporting several days’ worth of shadow. If it hadn’t been for her sense of urgency and the forlorn look on his handsome face, Mia would have taken him to bed.
But clearly it wasn’t sex on his mind.
Instead, Mia followed him into Jamie’s room. Jamie was in his wheelchair by his high-tech desk.
A mouthpiece extended from the computer to his chin. He didn’t look up when Mia entered.
Quickly, Mia read what Jamie had said so far:
I STARTED WITH THE COMPANY’S ASSETS IN THE STATES, THEN ITALY. IT’S A PRIVATE COMPANY, SO ONLY SO MUCH INFORMATION IS AVAILABLE. I FOLLOWED THE MONEY TO THE EXTENT I COULD. DUN & BRADSTREET, PRIVCO, BUSINESS INSIGHTS—ANY RESOURCE I COULD TAP. FOUND SOMETHING INTERESTING.
Mia said, “Hi Jamie, what was it?”
He looked at her with welcome surprise.
HELLO, MIA. I’M GLAD YOU’RE HERE. I DIDN’T HEAR YOU COME IN.
“You were so focused,” she replied. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”
IT’S MORE OF AN ODDITY. AS OF A YEAR AGO, BENINI ENTERPRISES HAS SEEN A FORTY-MILLION DOLLAR DECLINE IN ANNUAL REVENUES OVER FIVE YEARS. IN A COMPANY THAT TYPICALLY GENERATES 110-15
0 MILLION IN REVENUE EACH YEAR, THAT’S A HUGE DECLINE.
Vaughn said, “Okay, but we knew that.”
I’M NOT SURE WE KNEW THE DECLINE WAS THAT SEVERE. THAT’S ABOUT THIRTY PERCENT. A LARGE NUMBER.
Mia frowned, “Okay, so the company was vulnerable.”
RIGHT. AND THAT’S WHERE THINGS GET INTERESTING. TAKE A LOOK AT THIS.
With a subtle shift of his jaw, Jamie used the mouthpiece to change screens. Mia found herself looking at a Google Maps satellite view of a portion of Calabria, in Italy. Lots of green with a few patches of gray and one large area with concentric circles of white.
“What is it?”
Vaughn said, “The Benini property?”
Jamie flipped back and said:
YES. TWELVE MONTHS AGO, THE COMPANY PUT IT UP FOR SALE. FROM WHAT I CAN TELL, AFTER REDUCING THE PRICE TWICE, THEY HAD A BUYER THROUGH AN ITALIAN BROKER. THE DEAL WAS SET TO CLOSE NEXT MONTH.
Mia pointed to the screen. “What are the circles?”
I THINK IT’S AN OLD QUARRY. FROM WHAT I CAN TELL, THE PROPERTY HASN’T BEEN USED IN YEARS.
Vaughn said, “Marble?”
MAYBE.
Mia said, “What happened to the deal?”
BENINI PULLED IT.
Vaughn sat straighter. “Why?”
I CAN’T TELL YOU WHY. BUT THE TIMING IS QUESTIONABLE.
Mia considered this. “Did it happen after Paolo’s death?”
A FEW WEEKS BEFORE.
Vaughn said, “Who pulled the deal? Could you tell?”
NO.
Mia turned the possibilities around in her mind. “Did they have a better offer?”
NOT THAT I COULD FIND. BUT IT’S POSSIBLE.
“Then why pull it if they needed the money? What else would they want to do with an old quarry?”
Vaughn said, “If it is a marble quarry, maybe they want to mine it again.”
BUT TO GET IT UP AND RUNNING AGAIN WOULD TAKE CAPITAL THEY DON’T HAVE.
Mia thought about her conversations with Svengetti, Frist, and Jiff. A perfect place for dumping toxic waste?
