The Devil Will Come (23 page)

We’d gone another block before he said, “It was the kid, wasn’t it? The girl?”

“Both her and her brother, but she did the heavy lifting. They wanted the parents to move back to Long Island. Seems the kids don’t like Scranton too well.”

“Hard to imagine,” Karl said, showing some fang in half a smile. “So, she’s a TK, huh? Just like what’s-her-name, Hallie— up in Maine, all those years ago? The one who destroyed her whole town?”

“I don’t think Hallie was her name, but yeah— seems like the same ability. Whether it’s as powerful… no way to tell.” I shrugged. “I’m hoping for a different outcome with this one, though. No more ‘Black Proms’.”

“You and me both, Stan. You and me both.”

* * * * *

Courtesy Call

The car they were using was an inconspicuous dark blue Chevy Nova, and they drove it through the quiet streets of Clarks Summit, Pennsylvania at a steady 20 miles an hour. This was slow enough for the two men to avoid the hostile glances reserved for those who speed through residential areas, but fast enough so that they wouldn’t look like predators. Suburban mothers pay attention to strangers in slow-moving cars— nobody wants her kid’s picture ending up on a milk carton.

After a brief circuit of the neighborhood, the driver stopped the car around the corner from the woman’s street and said “So, what do you think?”

The other man shrugged heavy shoulders. He took off his Wayfarer sunglasses, blew dust from the lenses, and placed them in the breast pocket of his expensive gray suit. “Looks all right,” he said finally. “Nobody sitting in a parked car, no vans with one-way glass, no service trucks around, nobody digging up the street in sight of her house.” He scratched his ear for a moment. “I think it’s clear.”

“Yeah, me too,” the driver said, and took his foot off the brake.

They parked right in front of the woman’s house. In a city, they might have stashed the car a block away and walked over— but in a neighborhood like this one, that would only attract attention. A green Lincoln Town Car sat in her driveway, a sign that she was home.

Once out of the car, the driver made a quick, inconspicuous survey of the street. He stood slightly over 6’1”, and at 172 pounds was lean verging on skinny. He looked older than his 43 years. The hair contributed to that— it had gone pewter gray in his twenties, a family trait that showed up every two or three generations. But the deep lines in his face owed nothing to genetics— they had been earned, every one of them.

The other man was shorter, wider, and younger by twelve years. In contrast to the driver, who moved with an unselfconscious grace, the younger man lumbered. Shoulders hunched and head thrust forward, he walked as though he was butting his way through life.

They took their time on the long sidewalk that led to the house — a raised ranch covered in white siding and trimmed in dark brown wood that badly needed re-staining.

A glass storm door protected the wooden one behind it from the elements. The younger man was reaching forward to ring the bell just as the inner door opened. Through the glass of the storm door they saw a thirtyish, attractive woman wearing pants and a striped blouse, carrying a handbag. The inside door was solid wood without a window in it, so the men had been as unaware of the woman’s approach as she had apparently been of theirs. Certainly, she looked surprised to see them standing there — surprised, and, fleetingly, something more. For an instant, the driver thought, she had looked frightened.

The two men and the woman stared at each other through the glass for a second or two. Then the woman pushed the storm door open. “Yes? Can I help you?” The voice was a pleasant contralto, but the tone was chilly.

“Mrs. Latona?” the driver asked politely.

“Yes, that’s right,” she said. “But I’m afraid I’m not buying any insurance today, or whatever you guys are selling.” She showed them the large drawstring handbag. “I was just on my way out.”

“We’re not selling insurance, ma’am,” the driver said. He reached inside his jacket and brought out a small leather case which he flipped open to show an identification card on one side and a badge on the other. “FBI, Mrs. Latona. I’m Special Agent George Burke, and this is my partner, Special Agent Tom O’Hare. We need a few minutes of your time.” The man introduced as Agent O’Hare nodded at the woman by way of greeting, then went back to watching the street.

The woman squinted at the tall man’s ID folder. “That picture doesn’t really do you justice, you know.”

Burke smiled briefly. “The Bureau uses the same photographer who does all those passport photos,” he said. “Nobody ever looks good in them. Now, could we talk inside, do you think?”

She frowned. “Well, this isn’t a very convenient time, really. I’ve got a hair appointment, and then some shopping that I really have to get done this afternoon.” She looked from one of them to the other. “I hate to ask this, but do you think you could come back in about two hours? I can give you all the time you need, then. I promise.”

Burke shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, Mrs. Latona. We’re on official business, and it’s pretty important. I think you’ll agree about the importance once I explain what brought us here, but if we could do it
inside
….”

Her frown deepened for an instant, then gave way to a resigned expression as she said, “Well, if we have to, we have to. Come on in, and let’s get it over with.”

Burke and O’Hare followed the woman up a short flight of stairs into the kitchen. She gestured at a dinette table that was surrounded by four chairs with armrests. “We’ll talk here, if you don’t mind. The living room is a
complete
mess, since I wasn’t expecting company this afternoon.”

The men sat down but the woman remained standing. Putting her large handbag carefully on the table, she asked, “Can I get you guys something to drink on a warm day like this?”

O’Hare just shook his head, but Burke said, “No, thank you, ma’am. We’re fine.”

“Well, if this is going to take a while, I want to fortify myself with something cool,” she said. Opening the refrigerator door, she peered inside for a moment before bringing out a quart-size carton of orange juice. From a dish rack near the sink she plucked a short, broad glass. She poured juice and carried the glass over to the table where she sat down.

Watching her move around the kitchen, Burke was struck by the contrast between what he was expecting and the woman in the flesh. True, no one had given him a photo or description of Angela Latona, but he’d seen plenty of Mafia wives over the years. They tended to run to a type that Burke had privately labeled as
dark, dumpy, and
dumb
. Once they’d passed thirty and given birth to three or four
bambinos,
the weight really started to build up — along with the growth of dark hair along the upper lip.

The woman before him, however, was fair of skin, and her hair was light brown verging on blonde — although Burke knew that these days a woman’s hair is whatever color she wants it to be. Although she looked to be in her mid-thirties, Angela Latona had kept her figure trim and well-toned. The hazel eyes had the spark of intelligence in them, and she spoke as if her education hadn’t stopped with high school. This, too, was atypical, since Mafia guys tended to like the expression
barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen
when it came to their wives. They had little interest in a woman with a mind of her own.

Maybe I better stop thinking in stereotypes
, Burke thought,
before it gets me into trouble
.

Aloud, he said, “Mrs. Latona, have you had any contact with your husband recently?”

She frowned and shook her head. “Not directly. I haven’t spoken to Carlo in almost a year, since after I moved out. But every couple of months, he sends Oreste Castellino, one of his
goombahs
, to visit me. Orie keeps trying to show me the error of my wicked ways. He goes on about how Carlo is a changed man these days, no more hitting, no more fooling around with the bimbos. He tells me I should come home and see for myself.” The frown was replaced by a tight smile. “He hasn’t been too convincing, so far.”

“He won’t be coming to see you again,” Burke said. “We believe that your husband’s hopes for a reconciliation have undergone some revision lately.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“He means that Carlo Latona has decided to have you whacked,” O’Hare said.

She stared at him, her face rigid with shock, then turned to Burke. “Is this for real? Are you
serious
?”

Burke nodded slowly. “Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid it
is
true. The guys in the Organized Crime unit who keep tabs on your husband’s branch of the Terrana family tell us that the contract has already gone out.”

“My God,” the woman said softly.

“I’m afraid so,” Burke said. “For some reason, Carlo’s not using any of his own people. Word is, he went outside the family to an independent contractor known as Dennis. This is somebody new to the business, and we don’t have much information about him yet, even his last name. The intelligence agency rumor mill says that Dennis used to do a lot of government work, but our friends at the CIA say they never heard of him. Of course, they lie a lot— it’s part of their job description.”

“Doesn’t matter,” O’Hare said. If Burke wanted to play “good cop, bad cop” he was happy to play the mean guy of the pair. “If Carlo Latona hired him, he’ll be good. Something like this, it’s a real Hallmark moment, you know? You gotta figure he cares enough to send the very best.”

The woman looked at O’Hare with distaste for a second, then turned back to Burke. “But why would Carlo want to
kill
me? Over the separation? I don’t believe it— he still hopes that I’ll come back to him!”

“Well, he used to,” Burke said. “But that was before he found out that a Suffolk County grand jury is expected to indict him next month for the murder of Frank Brogna. You knew Frank, didn’t you, Mrs. Latona?”

“They used to call him ‘Frankie the Foot,’ on account of all the money he spent on shoes,” O’Hare said. “Kidskin, ostrich skin, maybe even rhino hide, for all I know. If it was expensive and you could make a shoe out of it, old Frankie would buy it.”

“You
did
know Frank Brogna, didn’t you?” Burke said.

“Well, I’m not sure,” she said impassively. “Carlo has so many ‘business associates, I’m sure I never learned the names of half of them.”

“Nobody’s asking you to go on the record, Mrs. Latona,” Burke said patiently. “You’re not under oath, and nobody’s wearing a wire. We’re just making conversation here. But the Bureau’s OCU has got video evidence that Frank Brogna visited your house at least twice a week, every week for almost three years. So let’s cut the crap, all right?”

The woman said nothing.

“It only makes sense that Frankie should be over at your place a lot,” O’Hare said. “After all, he was responsible for washing most of the cash that came in through your husband’s ‘business interests’— until Carlo caught him skimming.”

“Why would I know anything about that?” she said angrily. “Do you think Carlo used to discuss
business
with me? You figure he used to lie in bed at night and talk about how much money the heroin brought in last month, how much from the whores, and whether the union kickbacks were up or down? Is that how you think it
works
?”

“No, as a matter of fact, I don’t,” Burke said. “But I’m pretty sure that, even if you didn’t know exactly what Frankie Brogna did for your husband, you knew him by name and by sight.”

Burke picked up a glass salt shaker from the table and stared into it, as if sodium chloride was the most interesting substance in the world. “Anyway, what I think isn’t really important,” he said, and put the salt shaker down. “It’s what your husband believes that matters.”

“And what Carlo’s pretty sure of,” O’Hare said, “is that you saw some of his soldiers bring Frankie over to your house, through the back door, on the last night anybody ever saw the poor bastard alive. Nobody’s sayin’ that you were actually down in the basement, watching, while your husband and his pals took Frankie apart, a little at a time— although, who knows? Maybe you get off on stuff like that.”

“Tom….” Burke’s voice was a warning.

O’Hare made a shushing motion. “All right, all right. But the thing is, Carlo seems convinced that from the kitchen, you must’ve heard the screaming and pleading and all the other sounds that Frankie made while they were working on him. He also thinks that you might have been looking out the bedroom window later on, and caught a glimpse of what his boys dragged out of the house and dumped in the trunk of a car.”

“The car that was apparently driven to a landfill in New Jersey, that’s owned by one of your husband’s companies,” Burke said. “The same landfill where an earth mover accidentally turned up a decomposed body a couple of weeks ago— a corpse that has now been positively identified, through DNA and dental records, as the remains of one Frank Brogna.”

“Carlo knows that you’re going to be subpoenaed for the grand jury. And for the trial, too,” O’Hare said. His voice was quiet now, almost compassionate. “He figures you’re going to get up there on the witness stand and send him to prison for the rest of his life.”

“But they can’t
make
a wife testify against her husband,” she protested. “That’s the law, isn’t it?”

“Sure it is,” Burke said. “But the law doesn’t
prevent
you from testifying, if you want to. And Carlo seems to think that you’ll want to.”

“Why? Why in Christ’s name would he think
that
?”

Burke shrugged. “You left him, right? You must have had your reasons. You said something before about hitting, and about bimbos. And you’ve refused to come home. How long did you say it’s been? Almost a year? That shows that you’re still mad. Maybe mad enough to testify against him— who knows?”

“And besides,” O’Hare said, “if you decide to go for a divorce later on, having Carlo in prison on a murder rap would give you a hell of a strong case to take in front of a judge. But that only works only if Carlo’s convicted.”

“But I haven’t decided if I even
want
a divorce,” she said.

“Carlo doesn’t know that,” Burke said.

His words seemed to hang in the air during the silence that followed.

Finally the woman said, “All right, you’ve delivered your damn warning, and managed to ruin my day. Is that all you came for?”

Burke shook his head. “Not entirely,” he said. “This is basically a courtesy call, Mrs. Latona. O’Hare and I work out of the Scranton field office. We were briefed late this morning, after our boss got a call from Washington about your husband and his intentions toward you. Our orders were to get out here right away, to apprise you of the danger you’re in, and provide short-term security.”