And ordered a hit on Salvy Grosso and his stupid nephew. Just like that. Snap of the fingers.
Nick hadn’t realized he was crying until he looked up, saw Laura through his tears. He wiped his eyes roughly with the back of his hand.
Her voice was steady and cool. “There’s a room down the hall for patients’ families. I checked it out. It’s empty and there’s coffee available.”
She closed the door behind them; handed him a cup of coffee, opened a can of plain soda for herself.
“There are a few things I want to tell you, Nick. Papa said I should.”
“Say whatever you want to say. I’m listening. If Papa said …”
“First, probably this isn’t really important now. But it is to me. Papa said I should have told you right away, that night. But you know me. No excuses, no explanations, no apologies. So—this is just for your
information,
okay?”
No. She hadn’t been intimate with Richie. Ever. And he never had a key to her apartment. Ever.
“I figured that out myself, Laura. And you were right. I shouldn’t have questioned you.”
Her smile was sad. “But you
didn’t
question me, remember?”
He smiled, too. “In my heart, I did. And you read me.
Remember?”
Laura drank some soda, put the can down. She became very serious; looked out the window, then turned and faced him squarely.
“I have something else to tell you.”
“Papa said you should?”
Her smoky gray eyes caught glints of ice from the cloudy sky. “He doesn’t know this. I’m leaving for London tomorrow night.”
He stood up, looked down at her. “Wadda ya gonna do, buy some more diamonds from your friend, Mr. Chen? Or did you hear about his broken leg, and you’re gonna nurse him. What?”
“I’m going to visit my son, Anthony.” She spoke quickly, not breaking the pattern of her speech, or she might not be able to continue. “Dennis’s and my son, Anthony Chen. He is nearly thirteen years old. He’s enrolled in a good school in England. A little sooner than expected. I want to help him settle in.”
“Jesus Christ, Laura. Do you know what kind of a man Dennis Chen is? Do you know that he had one of his own sons killed because of the street drug deal when Peter got killed?
His own son!”
She placed her forefinger over his lips and shook her head. Her tone softened. “Oh, Nick. My God, Nick, are you still so gullible? That wasn’t
his
son. Anthony is his only son. He has two daughters who live with his wife in Taiwan. I don’t know anything about any boy being killed.”
Everybody lied to him. Everybody. “How do you know so much, Laura? How involved are you in all of this?”
“Not at all. Dennis has been my lover, for many years. We see each other from time to time, but when we are apart, we ask nothing, demand nothing from each other. That’s how it is.”
“You
warned Chen not to come.” It was obvious to him now. “Why? How did you know about the meeting? About the drug dealings, if you’re not involved, Laura? Tell me the truth.”
“
I always tell the truth.
I knew about the China White as sort of a peripheral reality. I know nothing, want to know nothing about any of your grandfather’s … dealings. Or Dennis Chen’s. Neither of them ever brought me into anything. Each man has a special place in my life. I knew about a meeting because I’ve learned through the years to pick up signs. I didn’t know when, or even why, or
who
would be gathering. Just that it was big. And very risky.”
“What made you call Dennis? What made you suspect that …?”
“You
did, Nick. Don’t look so surprised. I told you, I pick things up peripherally. Through my skin, my bones, my lifelong way of knowing. It was obvious to me in this case. I came by your apartment one night and watched you and your redheaded friend, Eddie, walk from the building to his car. Your
partner,
Eddie. I came to apologize, maybe, to explain about Richie. The two of you held my attention. There was a closeness between you; a trust renewed. You’ve told me how good it had been working with him, the ‘Sicilian Irish poster boy,’ you called him. I tried to think: why would you be seeing him? For what purpose? None except that you were still a cop, Nick.”
“So you decided to warn your … lover?”
“I warned Dennis because if I let him walk into a trap, I would lose Anthony forever. He is my only link to my son. He would disappear from my life and I would never be able to find him. Not ever.”
“That was why you warned him?”
She turned away for a moment, then held him with a challenging stare. “One of the reasons.”
He felt his breath catch. There was a knock on the door. He wrenched it open, then stepped back apologetically, nodding to an obviously distressed elderly couple. Nick walked back to the window at the end of the hall.
When she came to him, he asked, insistently, “If you suspected it might be a trap, why didn’t you warn Papa? I thought you were so close to him—like a grandfather—”
“Oh, much closer than that, Nick.” Quickly, she modified her tone. She didn’t want to insinuate anything deeply private. It wasn’t necessary. “I went straight to Papa that night. The night of the ‘redhead.’ We talked—about my not explaining to you about Richie. He said I should clear it up. Well, I just did.” She narrowed her eyes and studied him closely. “He
knew,
Nick. He knew there was something else. He’s known me since I was a child. I never lie. He asked me if there was anything else I
wanted
to tell him. Not that I
should
tell him. When I said no, nothing I wanted to tell him, Nick, he knew. It was in his eyes, in his expression, in his posture. He read me, clearly. He had a decision to make then. His own choice. I warned him in my own way. Message delivered, message received.”
“You expect me to believe he walked into that meeting, knowing it might be a trap?”
“I don’t expect you to believe anything but what you want to believe. If you want to know why he made this choice, I can make an educated guess. He was tired, Nick. Of all of it. Just as you’ve obviously been living a double life, so has he. Maybe he loved one part of his life and hated the other. Maybe that’s why he made his choice.”
She had so much information, so much knowledge of how things worked, how men’s minds worked.
“If anyone else,
anyone,
told me what you’ve just told me, I wouldn’t believe one single word. I’d be positive that person was up to her neck in all of it—the money laundering, drug distribution. Right in the middle of everything.”
She held her wrists up in front of him, surrendering. He clutched them in his hands. Shook his head. “Laura, Christ, Laura, I’ll never understand you.”
“That’s part of my charm, isn’t it? We had fun with each other. And by the way, your grandfather—I know you haven’t asked, but remember, I can read you—never asked me to get close to you. When he realized it, he just said that I should be very careful with you. That you are very vulnerable. I hope I haven’t hurt you, Nick.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’ve done to me.” He sighed deeply, ran his hand through his thick dark hair. “At least I had a chance to talk to my grandfather. I’m going to see how he’s doing.”
She blocked his way. “Too late, Nick. He’s gone. I was holding his hand and he smiled at me and just let go. Just like that. He had a long life. I know he was very pleased that you came to see him.”
Nick turned away. He paced back and forth, leaned against the window frame. His voice was husky. “God. I’m glad I came. It would have haunted me all my life if I hadn’t. I’d never have learned the truth. About my father’s death. I finally got to ask him about what happened that day. Up on the structure.”
“And what did he tell you?”
It was the way she said it. Softly. Almost sadly. The same tone of voice she had used when she said to him, “My God, Nick, are you still so gullible?”
She took his hand. “Don’t say a word for a minute, okay? Listen. And think.
Why
would Vincent—not the brightest guy in the world, or the bravest—why would he go against an order from Papa?
Why?
Nick, Vincent Ventura wouldn’t go up and down a staircase without his father’s permission.”
She nudged his shoulder lightly. “The only person your mother loved as much as you and your father was Papa. He was her personal god. He showed her only wonderful things in life; protected her; cherished her. But your mother was bright, smart, knew how to listen and to read people. After your father’s death, she had one ten-minute conversation with Papa. And then she knew.
To the depths of her soul, she knew.
There was no way she would accept his lie. She had so many losses all at once: her husband, her father. Her heart was fragile, but what happened and how it happened, the terrible, unforgivable betrayal by her father, all contributed to her early death.”
Nick dug his hand into his trouser pockets; he clenched and opened his fists, could feel his fingernails digging into his flesh.
“Your grandfather died a happy man, Nick. He knew you’d consider a deathbed statement practically sacred. That’s a cop thing, isn’t it?”
Of course, she was right. Everything she said made sense. His original motivation in all of this, his double-triple life, all these months living practically on the edge of paranoia, all his actions to avenge the long-ago murder of his father, the loss of his mother, and the painfully recent death of his son—they hadn’t been misdirected.
Why in God’s name, Nick thought, wouldn’t a murderer also be a deathbed liar?
N
ICK STOPPED AT HIS
grandfather’s bedside for a moment, stared at the empty dead face, said a prayer, and left. He planned to go back to his apartment to sleep for a while.
Tom Caruso intercepted Nick in the parking lot. “Let’s get in the car and talk. We’ve got a slight problem.”
One look at Caruso’s face convinced Nick the problem wasn’t slight. It was major. The first part of Nick’s tape was loud and clear: names of those attending, carefully articulated by Nicholas Ventura, were the highlight. Then the tape became garbled. Statements were disconnected to anything said before or after.
“When we tried to enhance it, all we came up with were sounds like clicking, chair-scraping, paper rattling, a humming sound. They could have been guys at a meeting anywhere, any time. At the end, we got you saying goodnight to your grandfather, I assume by the car. The pictures were excellent, Nick. We’ve had DEA experts ID almost everybody. But we are in the Dumpster with the rest of it.” He stopped speaking and looked closely at Nick, who seemed to have blanked out. “Hey, you with me or what? You hear what I’m saying?”
Nick held his hand up. “Wait. Just wait a minute.” He stared at Caruso, then asked, “Where’ve you got Joe Menucci? My grandfather’s driver?”
Menucci, held as a material witness, was at Papa Ventura’s home, trying to keep the old woman, Aunt Ursula, out of the way. Agents had come with an assortment of search warrants and were ripping through the house, room by room. Papa’s sister was under the impression that they were dinner guests and she was upset. No one was in the kitchen cooking.
She didn’t really recognize Nick, but he told her quietly that her brother Nicholas had sent him to tell her to get some rest. She seemed relieved, nodded, and disappeared.
Nick led Joe Menucci by the arm into the hallway. Through open doors, he could see men methodically going through all the papers, file cabinets, shaking books, dumping them on the floor. They were filling large corrugated cartons they had brought with them.
Joe the Brain stared hard at Nick, who leaned forward and rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Joe, I gotta talk to you.”
“How come you’re here? Everybody else got picked up. I’m being held—material witness or some shit like that.”
Nick said, “Me, I’m just the grandson that worked in the real estate office,
capisci?
So far. I helped them go through the files at the office. They closed it down for now. I’m nothing to them. Yet.”
“Is it true, Nick? Is … is Papa dead? I heard it but …”
“That’s why I’m here, Joey. To pick out a suit and clothes for him. Help me, you know what he liked best.”
The intelligent black eyes blinked rapidly. Joe the Brain smeared the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand. Nick knew how much pain the man was holding. Papa Ventura had been his world.
One of the DEA agents called them into the office.
“How come there’s nothing on this computer? Not a damn thing.”
“Papa Ventura never used it. He kept it here for when kids came to visit. They liked to play games with it.”
“Yeah? Well, somebody knew what to do. It’s been swept absolutely clean. I don’t think kids did that.”
Menucci shrugged. He told the agent why he and Nick had to go upstairs. The agent consulted his immediate boss. It was okay; there were agents in Ventura’s bedroom.
They stopped at the top of the sweeping staircase and Nick drew close. “I’ve gotta ask you something, Joey. You never had a chance to go back to Ingram Street last night, right?”
Joe raised his chin; his eyes narrowed. “What for?”
“Look, Joe. I know all about the bug you put in for Papa. See, when they find that, they got everybody real tight. Including me.” It was obvious that Joe was suspicious. The bugging had been strictly between Papa. and himself. Nick needed to convince him. “Look, I know Papa had you bug Chen’s house …”
“He never trusted them chinks.”
“I know that. And I know he wanted to have a tape of the meeting, to make sure, later, that all commitments were met by everyone. Christ, tell me where it is before these gloms get an idea and rip the place apart. Or Augie the Butcher’s kid finds it and—”
“The kid wouldn’t do nothing.”
“But the feds would.”
Joey leaned close, looked around, and whispered the details, and they entered Papa Ventura’s bedroom.
Joe the Brain swept the wide bed free of various items the feds had tossed haphazardly. Stoically, he selected from Papa’s wardrobe a handsome midnight blue suit, shirt, tie, socks, pocket handkerchief, shining black shoes. They pulled down one of Papa’s smooth calfskin suitcases. The agent checked it out carefully, then let them pack up the clothes. Joe folded, caressed each item, his large hands smoothing wrinkles, fingertips lingering for a moment.