A Thousand Tombs (17 page)

Gen was sitting at the dining room table with the laptop open, writing a wrap-up report for a client who’d needed her to track down a long-estranged almost-ex-husband in San Jose so she could get a legal divorce. She adored the cases she worked on when her clients ended up happy. Not everyone was pleased of course, but then some of them probably had it coming.

Keys turned in the front door and someone entered. “Hey Liv,” she called. She’d had the lock changed and a deadbolt installed after the break-in, and nobody had new keys but Oliver.

“I’m going picking at Out Of The Closet and a few of the furniture resale shops today, want to go?”

Picking was a term re-sellers used for finding good stuff. She always thought of it as panning for gold; sieving the mud in hopes of discovering one little nugget that would make the searcher’s eyes glitter with excitement. Livvie’s knack for a bargain had rubbed off on her, but she’d never quite gained his obsession for a find.

But then maybe she had. It was just that her personal obsession for a find tended to be more about finding answers, not good deals.

“I’d love to. I need a new couch.”

“My thoughts exactly,” he replied. “I’ve had enough of the sprung stuffing look. We can do lunch while we’re at it, if you have the whole day. I’m hoping to find a few more things for the shop before I head to Carmel next week.”

Gen drained her coffee and stood. “I’m all yours. Let me rinse the breakfast dishes and change my clothes and we can go.”

Livvie was ready right then, she could tell. It was only half past eight o’clock in the morning, but he was already decked out in his shopping uniform – a polo, jeans, and comfy shoes. She felt a pang when the realization struck that these browsing trips wouldn’t be happening nearly as often.

Oliver followed her into the kitchen. “I’ll clean up while you get dressed.”

“Nah, it’ll just take a minute.”

“Genny, you had a bowl of granola and a cup of coffee. I can handle it. Go brush your hair.”

“I love it when you boss me.” Her tone reeked of sarcasm, but she did as she was told, thinking all the while that Liv was the only person in her life who got away with ordering her around.

And she’d never admit it to anyone, but she’d meant what she said. She liked it. Heaven help her if that factoid ever got out.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later they were in their favorite thrift shop in the Castro, searching through the racks for designer duds.

The place was quiet. Every shopper was focused on their task, and the stillness in the room made Gen’s thoughts cycle back to Vitelli’s stoic silence.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Oliver said.

“I was just thinking about the Italian situation.”

“Ah, the detective gene kicks in.”

“Better late than never. The thing with Mack had me distracted.”

“There’s a good excuse.”

She made a face. “Will you give me a break?”

“I will when you stop acting like a child who’s out of candy.” Oliver faced her. “There was no ‘thing’ with Mack. You manufactured the thing.”

She started to protest but let the reprisal die. He was right. There was no
thing
. “I love you, Oliver Weston. I can always count on you to be yourself and to give it to me straight.”

They both cracked up at that.

When the chuckles petered out, Liv went back to searching through the handbags. “It’s because you trust me, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“You let me tell you what to do and listen to what I say because you know how much I care about you. You trust that I have your best interests at heart.”

“Exactly. So what’s your point?”

“Mack cares as much as I do. I can see it in his eyes when he looks at you. So why don’t you trust him?”

“I do.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay, well I’m learning how to. I’m trying.”

“Try not, do or do not. There is no try.”

He rummaged shoulder-deep in a haphazard pile of purses and surfaced with a leather saddlebag-style number that showed very little wear.

Gen saw his eyes light up.

He unlatched the top and peered inside. “I knew it, it’s a Coach.”

Livvie looked at her and shot his eyebrows up and down. “You just have to know what you’re looking for.”

* * *

A half hour later they were zigzagging through the massive showroom of a consignment resale furniture store, checking out the sofa sets. The stock on the floor covered every color and style on the market, from studded leather to contemporary chic.

Gen found a chocolate brown sectional with a chaise at one end that suited her. The chaise would be in the perfect spot to catch the afternoon sun, her favorite nap spot. “What do you think of this?” she asked.

“I like it.” Oliver checked the tag. “And the price is right.”

The chenille material was soft to the touch but serviceable. It would stand up to wear, it would look good in her place, and the price fit her budget. “Let’s find a side chair for you,” Gen said.

“I think it’s time we found a side chair for Mack. He’ll be using it more than I will now.”

She hoped so, but at the same time she didn’t. She’d miss Oliver’s fanny when it wasn’t in her chair as much as it used to be.

“On second thought,” Livvie added, “he’ll probably be in your bed more than the chair.”

“If we ever make it there.”

“Still trying to get his clothes off, are you?”

“Some things are worth the wait,” Gen replied.
 

* * *

The little bistro they loved was full, and their place on the waiting list kept them at least ten tables shy of a meal. But the spot was on the short list of their favorite eateries, so they got in line and settled in to wait in the queue.

They’d be famished by the time they were seated, and that was perfect because the portions were hearty and it was a soup kind of a day, blustery and sharp. The cook’s homemade crab bisque was another thing that Gen judged worth waiting for.

She’d gone back to the kitchen and asked him once how he made it, and the sweet little man was more than willing to share. It turns out he began with a traditional roux of clarified butter, all the better to add a little wattage to the shellfish – and a little bulk to her waistline. But she didn’t care. What would life be like without an indulgence now and then?

They were seated and had ordered lunch and a pot of tea when a trio of women across the room raised their voices in an obvious spat. One jumped to her feet, threw a wad of cash on the table, and flounced out. Oliver looked at Gen with raised brows; that kind of display was unusual here. They didn’t serve liquor.

“You missed a great scene at Swish the other night,” he said. “It was my going-away party, and the drinks were flowing. There was a lot of smoky eyes and tossing of wigs. Then someone I didn’t know made a pass at Glen Barwick’s boyfriend and the gloves came off. I mean literally.”

“What happened?”

“Glen was wearing these elbow-length white gloves, and he took them off slowly. Finger by finger. Then he stood up in his Farah Fawcett wig and cocktail dress and stilettos and socked the offending party in the stomach.”

“Why not the face?”

“No one in their right mind would punch a gay man in the face. We have morals, you know. You do not ruin anybody’s face, no matter what the offense might be.”

“So what did the other guy do?”

“He took it like a man.”

Gen nearly spat tea across the table. She held up a palm and grabbed for her napkin with the other hand, covering her mouth as she laughed aloud.

“Then,” Livvie continued, “he left. But he waited in a bathroom stall for Glen to come in, and when he did, the guy tore Glen’s sequined dress to shreds for payback.”

“No kidding.” Gen was on the verge of another round of giggles, but she waved a hand in the air and the gesture seemed to help her stop.

“You know the gays,” Livvie said. “Some of us are addicted to drama. Your people think about doing things like that, but they don’t actually go through with it.”

“My people?”

“You know what I mean. Straight white folk.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Gen replied. “Some cultures believe in that kind of revenge. An eye for an eye, and all that.”

Oliver tilted his head and considered it. “You’re serious.”

“Yeah. But when you think about it, revenge is such an unsophisticated response. It seems so immature and misguided. It doesn’t actually make anybody feel better.”

“I guess that depends on the injured party,” Oliver replied. “Someone who has dreamed about getting even for a long time might feel better when they get it. At least for a while.”

The waitress showed up and placed a steaming bowl before Gen, a plate of salad on Oliver’s side, and a basket of crusty artisan bread between them.

“But,” Gen said, “it’s creepy when you think about how far some people go to get revenge, slashing tires and murder and setting houses on fire. Doing real harm to someone because they harmed you.”

“What’s the Italian word for it?” Oliver asked. “Vendetta.”

Gen’s spoon stopped halfway to her mouth. She lowered it back to her bowl and stared at Oliver.

“My God, Livvie.”

“Did I say something profound?”

“You said vendetta. Do you think that could be the situation with Vitelli? Could it be an Italian thing, someone wants vengeance?”

“For what? Do you think Vitelli stole the coins from someone else?”

“No, I don’t think that. I believe he’s telling the truth about that part.”

“Well then, what could it be about?”

“I have no idea. It’s just that when you said the word, it struck a chord.” She reached for a hunk of bread and spread it with butter, then took a bite and savored the flavor of garlic and cheese that had been baked into the loaf. She’d need to double-time her walks for a while to work this off.

“I’m spending the weekend at Mack’s. But first I’m going to pay another visit to Vitelli, and then, while I’m hanging with the boys in East Bay, you can be sure the subject will come up.”

Gen rang Vitelli’s bell but didn’t get an answer. It was a beautiful morning, and chances were good he was out tending his flowers. She stepped off the porch and turned toward the back, and was surprised when she heard the sound of the door opening behind her.

She returned to the entry. “Mr. Vitelli, I–”

Her gut clenched when she saw his stricken face peering out. He was holding a rosary, and his features looked haggard and drawn. His eyes were bloodshot and lined red, as though he’d spent a sleepless night praying and crying.

It was clear to Gen that the resilience he’d had at the beginning of this drama was waning. Whatever was going on was wearing him down, and the sight of it chilled Gen as if she’d walked through a portal from San Francisco to Alaska in the depths of winter.

“Are you all right?” She didn’t try to keep the worry from her voice; Vitelli looked like death, and he had to know it.

He stood back from the door, then wound the rosary around his hand like it was a talisman and he wanted every inch in contact with his body. It was an old, worn piece that had been burnished by human touch and held and whispered to for decades.

It was the first time Gen had seen him with it. Vitelli hadn’t come off as the religious type before. What had brought about this need to talk with God? Maybe he’d finally realized he needed help.

“Come in.” Even his voice sounded spent.

“Vincenzo, you look awful.”

She crossed the threshold and closed the door, then followed him into the kitchen. The room was a mess. Unwashed dishes were piled in the sink, and the trash can beside the fridge was overflowing.

Vitelli didn’t seem to care.

A kettle had just begun to steam, and he went to the stove and turned off the burner. A tea pot waited on the counter. He poured the hot water into it with one hand and held the tabs of a pair of tea bags with the other. When the pot was full, he clacked the top on and brought it to the table.

Then he searched the cabinets for two clean mugs and indicated that Gen should sit with him. She complied and channeled Mack, waiting like a patient fisherman for the trout to come to the boat.

They sat and drank tea, silent as a pair of cloistered nuns, until the phone rang. Vitelli shot up from his chair like a jack-in-the-box, then raced to the wall-hung phone on the other side of the fridge.

He greeted the caller and they launched into a barrage of Italian. Vitelli’s voice was animated, but he sounded nervous. He must know she couldn’t follow the conversation, but he still seemed anxious, like maybe she had hidden language skills she had not revealed.

After he’d eyed her a couple of times, she picked up her tea and threw a thumb toward the living room, then removed herself to give him some privacy. His voice followed her through the door, and as soon as she was on the other side of it she heard him say, “
Salvatore e Luciano
.”

She took a seat at the end of the couch and stared at the land line extension. It was an old-fashioned black number with a circular face, the kind you stuck your finger in the holes to dial. She hadn’t seen one of those in decades. How cool was that? Almost an antique.

She smiled to herself and mouthed the excuse,
I wonder if it still works?
then lifted the receiver nestled at the top and depressed the little button beneath it. She covered the mouthpiece and raised the other end to her ear, then let loose of the button.

“Salvatore e Luciano sono due dei nostri migliori. Abbiamo difficoltà a credere vostre accuse.”

The connection was laced with static and the voice sounded remote. Long distance. The man who spoke sounded cautious and dismissive, as if the conversation was winding down. She couldn’t translate the Italian, but she recognized the names and the words
difficult
and
accuse
.

It wasn’t hard to get the gist of it. Vitelli was accusing the Carabinieri of something, and whoever was on the other end was having trouble believing it. She carefully replaced the receiver and waited until Vitelli’s voice went silent, then went back into the kitchen.

Vitelli was leaning against the counter, still at the telephone. His arms were braced and his head was bowed, and he didn’t turn when she came in.

Gen went to the table and took a seat.

She was looking through the assortment of stuff on the table when she saw it. A picture, half-hidden behind the sugar bowl, leaning against the base of a tall candle Catholics lit for prayers.

The photograph showed the pretty woman in the other pictures with Vitelli. Here, she was smiling a happy half smile that said she knew the secrets of the world. It was the rosary that gave it all away. She held it firmly in her lap as though it was a lifeline.

When Gen reached for the photo, she knew. “It’s your wife, isn’t it, Vincenzo? Something happened to her.”

Vitelli turned. His face crumpled but he didn’t weep, he just walked to the table and stared at the photo.

“Where is she, Vincenzo? Did she pass away?”

That suggestion brought him back to life. He shook his head with more vigor than he’d shown since Gen walked in. “No,” he insisted.

“Then where is she?”

He dragged in some air, then took a pull on his tea. When he put the mug back down, he said, “She has been away visiting friends.”

“You looked absolutely devastated when you answered the door, Vincenzo. It’s got to be more than that.”

“I do not like being without her.”

Gen studied the woman in the picture. “When is she coming home?”

Vitelli’s head dropped forward as if it weighed a ton and he couldn’t bear the burden any longer.

“I don’t believe you, Vincenzo. I don’t believe much anyone has told me. I saw you with Zuccaro in the park. Then I saw Giampaolino, the guy who punched me, with Zuccaro’s appraiser and a man with a limp. I’m sure John and this other guy are involved somehow.”

Vitelli’s face snapped up at the news. “Who is this man with a limp that you speak of?” he asked.

“Angelo something. I don’t know his last name,” Gen replied. “I followed Giampaolino and John into the Italian Athletic Club. I was escorted out by a man who seemed like some kind of bigwig, and he told me his name was Angelo.”

“Describe this man.”

“Your age, but taller. He’s Italian, too, and he sounds like you. Sort of commanding, if you know what I mean. He favored his right leg a little, and his neck had that permanent sun-damaged kind of redness. There were patches of broken blood vessels across his cheeks.”

Understanding washed over Vitelli’s features. “So that is where he has been hiding.” As he stared at the wall, Gen could almost see his resolve strengthen. He fingered a bead on the rosary, then clutched it tighter.

“Who is he?” she asked.

Vitelli’s dropped his gaze to Gen. “A ghost who walks again.”

“Will you stop with the parables? He was real enough.”

Vitelli’s eyes flicked away to study his wife’s photograph as if he wanted to memorize every nuance of her face. His eyes softened. Whatever was going through his mind, it was apparent that once again, he wasn’t about to share.

“Okay, Vincenzo.” She stood. “If you are determined to handle this alone, I’ll leave you to it.” She shouldered her bag and turned toward the door, then halted, remembering the reason she’d actually come.

She pivoted halfway toward the old man, not far enough to look him in the eye, not direct enough to put him on the spot. “I know Luca is protecting you by keeping your secret. I know your wife is in trouble somewhere, and I’m betting this Angelo guy is somehow involved. And I also suspect somebody wants some kind of revenge, and you’re the target. And my gut tells me the Italian cops have made this a little too personal. I can’t figure out why, but I’m going to keep working on it.”

She didn’t really know much of anything, of course, but sometimes it takes a player to catch one. “You need help, Vitelli. You need to go to the cops.”

Then, without another word, she went back through the living room and let herself out.
 

* * *

But she didn’t go far. In fact, she didn’t go anywhere, just climbed into the car and buckled up and drove around the block, taking a page from Mack’s playbook.

And bingo, when she turned onto his street again there was Vitelli, striding down the sidewalk, heading south toward Saints Peter and Paul and the park.

She stayed back a couple of blocks and followed along, sliding into the curb and pretending to talk on the phone, then pulling out to move a few feet forward and returning to the curb again to let him increase his lead.

When they hit a more heavily trafficked street she panicked, unable to pull over and afraid he would see her, but he was focused on his destination and did not once glance behind.

They were two blocks from the athletic club and Vitelli was moving faster. On a hunch, Gen parked. Vitelli made the door and went in, and Gen leaped out and locked the sedan with the remote as she ran. She caught sight of Vitelli just as he was escorted back out, bookended by a pair of burly wiseguys.

Angelo trailed behind, wearing a self-satisfied half-smile. The duo tossed Vitelli forward like a sack of dog food. He fell to his knees on the sidewalk, but in seconds he was on his feet, spinning around with his hands fisted at his sides.

Unconcerned, Angelo leaned lazily against the wall of the building and held up a flat palm as Vitelli approached. Gen saw his lips move, and as they did Vitelli stopped dead, as if he’d reached the end of a rope and couldn’t break free.

Angelo laughed. He struck the inside of one elbow with the other hand, then his fist went up and he spat on the concrete at Vitelli’s feet. He stood there for another thirty seconds, silent, seeming to dare Vitelli to make a move. Gen was wondering what kept Vitelli rooted in place, but he finally turned away.

She hid her face, then ducked into a recessed storefront and pretended interest in the wares behind the glass. A dozen beats later she saw his reflection as he stalked past, fists still clenched, wearing an expression of murderous rage.

* * *

Gen called Oliver on her cell as she was driving home. “Livvie, I just left Vitelli in North Beach.”

“What did he have to say?”

“Not much. But he looks like a dead man and it has to do with his wife being gone. When I mentioned I met that guy Angelo at the athletic club, he made a beeline for the place and confronted him.”

“What did they say?”

“I was too far away to hear.”

“Isn’t there some kind of spy equipment you could get that would let you eavesdrop from a distance?”

Gen rolled her eyes but considered the possibility. There had to be, and she would look into it. “And if I did have this spy equipment, would I walk around with it in my purse? I’d have to drag a duffle bag after me everywhere I went.”

She could just imagine him wagging a finger at her when he said, “You know the boy scout motto. Now what’s this about his wife?”

“Apparently she’s away visiting friends. He had her rosary beads wrapped around his hand like it was a rope and he was drowning. I saw a picture of her with it–”

She stopped.

“What?”

“I’m such a dummy. She wouldn’t have gone on a trip without her rosary. So the question is, what happened to her?”

“And the answer is …”

Gen filled in the blanks. “What if somebody snatched her, took her against her will? Maybe the night Luca saw the argument at Vitelli’s, after they taped him to the chair. Maybe they took her because she was the most important thing to Vincenzo.”

“That’s pretty extreme,” Oliver replied. “I can’t imagine an old man would let his wife get dragged off as a hostage and not tell the police. She might have just forgotten to pack the beads, or left them behind to remind him of her. Have you thought of that?”

“Could be. But humor me. Let’s pretend they took her to encourage him to give up the coins.”

“But you have them. Why haven’t they come after you?”

“They have. I think that’s why they broke into my place.” Her eyebrows knit as she thought it through. “But only Luca and Vitelli actually know for sure that I have them. Nobody else knows they’re in my safe deposit box.”

“Maybe it’s not really about the coins at all,” Oliver said.

“Then what is it about? It seemed to begin with the kid and the coin and Vitelli and the pawn shop.”

“I don’t know. But you better find out before Luca or Vitelli cracks, and they discover for sure who’s
really
got the coins.”