The Granite Moth (26 page)

Eventually, the traffic eased, and I accelerated out of Manhattan and deep into Queens. When I got to the Lucky Day Pawnshop and Diner, I knew that I was getting close and crossed my fingers that my anger would get me through what was sure to be an uncomfortable interview at best. At worst, well, there wasn't much point in thinking about East River graves. At least I'd be laid to rest in home waters. Deciding that it was unwise to show any obvious weakness, I slipped my sling off and stuffed it into the glove compartment while waiting for a red light to change. I felt a twinge as I pulled on my jacket sleeve, but not unbearable pain. I could keep my hand in my jacket pocket to add some support.

The small, dirty Patel Industries sign was hard to spot, but I remembered the gravel driveway and pulled up to the locked gates. My arrival must have been expected because a bulky man sauntered out and waved me through. I pulled directly up to the doublewide trailer serving as the headquarters for this sketchy operation. The front door was rusted, and it looked like a cannon ball had gone through part of the siding. There was no one milling about, but I glanced up to spot the surveillance cameras and waved. Only two, how about that. Maybe V.P. should be more, not less, paranoid. I could give him some pointers.

The door creaked when I opened it, but my host didn't need the added warning. He was smiling at me over the top of his alligator boots, hands folded casually across his stomach.
The grin was the kicker, boyish and shy enough of slick that mothers and judges alike deemed him trustworthy. When I'd had dinner with Meeza's family, they had been delighted with everything from his entrepreneurial spirit to the daisies he'd handed over. He read as not a threat. Now that was a neat superpower.

“Miss Stone, what a pleasure,” he began, all but salivating at what he must have deemed a victory. Why would I come to him unless ready to capitulate? Or at least negotiate. I knew I didn't have the upper hand, but I wasn't counting on a stacked deck. “I believe you know my friend Mr. Dekker.”

V.P. gestured to an empty doorway, and my stomach dropped, imagining his victim tied up and beaten. Then Lars walked into view unharmed and sipping a glass of wine.

“Hello there. I was hoping to avoid a scene with my call, Kathleen.” He ran his fingers through his hair, looking as sure of himself as he had at The Skyview. “Or do you prefer Kennedy? How about Kalida Sanchez?”

My undercover name was top secret, and I'd never told anyone on the outside. In case the neighborhood lines were bugged, I had even used code words when I called in tips via pay phones. My horror was apparent, and V.P. chuckled. I realized he'd laid down four kings to my bluff.
All in
, a voice in my head whispered. I was adult enough to know that wasn't good advice.

“You're working for V.P.,” I said, swiveling toward my opponent fast enough to make my arm ache. I thrust my hand into my blazer pocket, and both men started.

“Hang on there. No weapons necessary, love,” Lars said, shaking away the wine he'd spilled on his hand. With some effort, I swallowed down the urge to vomit at his term of endearment. I slipped my hand free and held it up, uneasy that the men had both assumed I was packing. I wasn't and hadn't
been since Detective Ellis Dekker confiscated my Smith & Wesson. I'd done a halfhearted Google search on permits to carry in New York, but hadn't made it any further than the disclosures page. My delightful hosts didn't need to know about that shortcoming.

“This?” I asked, gesturing around the office with my good arm. “There's a head-sized hole in the side of this building, and the carpet smells like gangrene. V.P.'s running a two-bit operation that caters to thugs.”

“No need to call yourself names,” V.P. said. I leaned against the wall so that I could see them both. Lars was swirling his wine as if we were at the four- and five-star restaurants he usually frequented, and V.P. was scratching at an invisible spot on his lapel. I'd touched a nerve with one of them at least. He knew that his accommodations weren't winning any awards, and he wasn't happy about it.

“You know what I mean,” I said.

“Yes, but do you?” Lars asked.

He took a sip from his glass, but kept his eyes on me. “Pinot Noir, Aubert Reuling Vineyard. 2006, I believe. $150 a bottle at most places, but Eva gives it to me for free.”

“What a saint,” I said.

“You'll catch on.” He swirled the red liquid again and held it up to the light. “Would you like one?” When he laughed, I knew that he was thinking about poor Ernesto Belasco foaming at the mouth, and I crossed my arms in front of me, right cradling left. Would he pour it down my throat if I refused? Instead I didn't reply.

“She's a smart cookie, this one,” V.P. added. “But not smart enough.”

“Maybe not. We'll see,” said Lars, taking a step toward me.

“I'm asking, why link yourself to this bottom feeder?” I said, not flinching at his approach and scrambling for time.
It dawned on me that the sounds on Ellis's voicemail were backfires, not gunshots. Lars had probably meant to leave a message, then hung up when one of V.P.'s cars started acting up.

“You're not thinking big enough, kitten. May I call you ‘kitten'? The aliases are so tedious. We have mutual friends after all.” I flushed thinking how disappointed his brother would be in both of us. He wasn't talking about his brother, though. “Salvatore—Mr. Magrelli to you, I believe—graciously offered me Ernesto's intended position after his, hmm, after his accident let's call it. The judge surely will. You know about that, don't you, kitten? The guilty traipsing off into the sunset while you go into hiding.”

“I never knew you had such a flare for the dramatic,” V.P. interrupted, seeming pleased with his companion's dialogue. If I had to describe their attitudes, I'd say smug, ready to put the whole kitty into their satin-lined pockets. Unfortunately, that kitty was me. My panic competed with curiosity, and I was desperate to know how my former assistant's boyfriend was connected to Magrelli.

“How long have you been shilling for a psychopath?”

“Should we compare company watches? Or can I take yours after they find your body?” V.P. asked.

“So this is it, you're saying? I'm about to meet my maker in a rusted-out trailer in the middle of nowhere Queens. My parents would be so proud.”

“I wish,” V.P. said, his grin dimming slightly. “But Mr. Magrelli thinks you have potential. Has been tracking you since the trial you managed to botch so magnificently.”

I took my time in responding, desperately wanting V.P. to be lying, but suspecting that he wasn't. Plenty of times the thought had crossed my mind that I wasn't dead yet because Magrelli didn't want me to be.

“His brother's in prison for life,” I finally said.

“And
for that, he extends his most sincere gratitude. Not having to bother with that freeloader anymore? You're saving him millions of dollars a year.”

It's true that the brothers hadn't been on good terms, Frank preferring the spoils to the wars. I wanted to sit down, sort through all these revelations, instead of focusing on the threats in front of me. If Salvatore Magrelli had been tracking me for years, I had been hiding for nothing. He probably had files on every person I'd ever hugged. I'd been worried that my connections had somehow put Lars in danger. Some joke. My concern reminded me of why I'd barged into this hellhole in the first place, and I thought maybe I could salvage something from this mess.

“What can I do to get Meeza out?” I said. I didn't know what I had to trade, but they could have it.

V.P. swung his boots off the desk and stood up. “Meeza has no part of this, you hear me? Not a damn penny's worth of knowledge.”

His protectiveness almost made me feel sorry for him. Almost. Channeling my best Meeza impression, I clucked at him. “Oh
aare bhagvaan
. If you're in, so is she.”

V.P. flushed, and he knew that it was true. He'd been saying it all along, just to me rather than himself. His affection for my friend might have been real, but so was her danger.

“I can help her, Vincent,” I said, turning my back to Lars and hoping I wouldn't regret that move. I could hear him pouring himself a generous refill. “She can disappear, live her life somewhere friendly. Never see either of us again. You love her, right?”

“I can take care of her,” he said.

“All I'm asking is that you consider it. You don't have to answer today.” I hated thinking of my friend as an ace in the hole, but it appeared that I had some leverage. V.P. would know that I wasn't
bluffing about this. If anyone had given serious thought and research into a fail-proof escape plan, it was me. Trying to disappear in the city had been a mistake, but Argentina? Argentina I could do.

“No deal,” Lars said. “Salvatore thinks you can be flipped. He thinks you're halfway there already. Frustrated with the police department, not opposed to violence.”

Magrelli's last words to me echoed in the mind,
I need someone quiet
. He'd watched me kick a woman while she was down. It wasn't too far of a stretch that I could be compromised in more ways. But that was Kalida Sanchez. Kathleen Stone was calling the shots now.

“Our dinner was his suggestion?” I asked, swiveling to look at Lars's light blue eyes. His pupils were pinpricks in the lights and reflected nothing.

“His idea of a joke, maybe, although one with a real goal. He wanted to know who killed Ernesto, and you were there, ready and willing. When he figured it out himself, I was off the hook.”

Lars held his glass up to me in mock salute, letting the fluorescents shine through the puddle of red, then drained the contents. It seemed to be a sort of confession, a brag really, about taking the life of a potential rival. With Ernesto out of the way, he could step into the vacant role? It didn't add up, and I was amazed by Lars's nonchalance, a gambler through and through.

“Off the hook?” Surely Salvatore wouldn't be complacent about his recruit's murder. Was Lars really that much more of a prize than Ernesto? I suppose his connections were better than those of an immigrant's son, but Salvatore had always valued loyalty above all else.

“If he sees something in you besides this mutt I see in front of me, I could overlook some fleas, too. With his blessing, we could see where things go.”

Lars leered at me, but it wasn't his expression as much as the phrase “with his blessing” that made me sick. Why was everyone always capitulating to this man? Even Zanna. Salvatore was scary, sure, but if Lacy “Big Mamma” Burstyn could stand up to the city's mafioso to open her businesses, I could say no to this not-so-tempting offer.

“No deal. Tell Salvatore—“ and here I forced myself from saying something I'd pay for later. “Tell Salvatore I send my best wishes on a happy and healthy marriage. I hope no more of his in-laws get killed.”

Of course fleeing crossed my mind. I'd never lived anywhere else, but I had a very expensive fake passport, and I'd researched enclaves in Latin American where no one would want to find me. Glacier towns inhabited by guides and adventurous tourists. I could take the cash from my last big-money case and bid adieu to sneaking through life. But it's hard to break those last few ties. And a small part of me still wanted to be that hero I'd set out to become. Maybe I couldn't cut the head off the snake, but I had no reservations about hacking away at the tail.

I stood in front of Ellis's building, weighing the need for an ally against the heartache I would inflict. If our positions were reversed, Ellis would have a speech prepared, know the right words to make this revelation sting less. On the way over, all I'd thought about was if I had enough cash to hide Meeza instead of myself and whether she would agree. How much would I have to explain? And how would she feel about year-round parkas? Sledding dogs? She was probably an animal person, right?

Ellis buzzed me up, and I blurted out his brother's involvement with a drug cartel as soon as I was inside. It wasn't my
most eloquent moment. Even still, I hadn't counted on the way family clouds people's judgment. Hadn't Ellis warned me of this moment? Maybe he really was a prophet, but that didn't make his response sting any less.

“You're telling me that you solved two cases for the NYPD in one afternoon. Thank you for your service, Kathleen. The commendation—no
commendations
, pardon me—are in the mail.”

Ellis was standing in his bare feet in the kitchen, a picture of relaxed domesticity. I wasn't fooled. The Ellis I knew wasn't sarcastic, so I took his tone as a bad sign.

“I don't know what Lars is doing for Magrelli, but it's lucrative enough to kill for. I think he took out Eva's cousin to have a shot.”

“So first my brother's a possible lover and now he's a murderer? You used to take rejection better than this.”