Head Shot (11 page)

Beppe shrugged his shoulders. 'Okay, my boy,' he mumbled. 'I wil do you this favour; but one day I may ask you to do me a smal service in return.'

The policeman shook his head as he ambled away, before casting his eye around the living room of Beppe's penthouse, the biggest flat in a new development looking across the water to the offices of the civil servants who served the Scottish Executive. There were ten members of the clan at the party in addition to Maggie and himself. His gaze took them all in: his nana, his mother, his Uncle Beppe and Aunt Sophia, his unmarried cousin Paula, her younger sister Viola, with her husband, Stanley Coia, and their children, Ryan and David . . . Stan was a

Manchester United fan ... and finally the venerable Auntie Josefina, Papa----reggio's ninety-four-year-old sister. Brought by Beppe from her nursing home, she sat in a chair by the window, sipping from a glass of dark Amarone, having forgotten at least half an hour before where she was or why she was there.

74

Taking his wife's arm, Mario led her over to his grandmother. 'Honest to God,' the old lady muttered glowering across at her son. 'Sometimes I wonder how that one manages to get up in the morning, wi' the little brain he's got. If your papa had heard him talk that nonsense.'

She looked at Maggie. 'I'm sorry, lassie. We don't get together enough as a family, but I can hardly blame the two of you for steering clear of that son of mine.'

Nana Viareggio may have been eighty-seven years old, but her back was stil ramrod straight, and she carried herself with the air of a woman in her seventies. She was tal and slim, with piercing brown eyes and silver hair, which was always bound tight in a bun, and she dressed predominantly in black. From Mario's earliest memory of her, she had never seemed to change; indeed, there were moments when he fancied that she was growing younger. Her Christian name was Maria, he knew, but he had never heard anyone other than his grandfather address her by it; she was 'Mama' to Beppe and Sophia, and to Christina, his own mother, and 'Nana' to everyone else. She and her only grandson had been close before Papa Viareggio's death and they had grown closer since. He and Maggie saw more of her than of Christina, and visited her for lunch on the first Sunday of every month.

She frowned at Beppe once more. 'Listen to him,' she muttered. 'You know, son, for al that big bog-Irish father of yours . . . God rest his generous soul . . . you're more Italian than your uncle ever was or ever wil be. When they named you after your papa, I think much of him passed into you. You understood him, and you stil value the things he did. Like your dad, he died too soon, or a lot of things might have been different.'

She put a strong hand on his elbow and drew him into a corner.

'That's what we want to talk to you about, your mother and I,' she said, quietly.

'What do you mean?' As he spoke, he realised that Maggie was no longer by his side; Aunt Sophia had taken her off to meet the two boys, who were dressed, inevitably, in Manchester United shirts. As he glanced across at them, his mother moved towards him, as if answering a private summons by Nana. Christina McGuire was tal and handsome, like her mother, and like her she was a one-man woman, who regarded her widowhood as a period not of mourning, but of waiting.

'I mean,' Nana continued, reclaiming his attention, 'that there's family business to be talked about.'

'Such as?'

'Such as your part in it,' his mother answered, pausing for a moment to let her words sink in.

'I've made a decision, Mario; I'm retiring. I'm selling my share of the business to Rachel and Bert.'

Christina McGuire was an Edinburgh player in her own right; she had trained as a personnel manager after leaving university, and had worked in industry, until, two years after Mario's birth, and with backing from her father, she had set up a recruitment consultancy. She had begun by specialising in finding staff for the financial services industry, and she had shared in its success and expansion. Over the years the scope of her business had broadened, taking in new sectors, including law and accountancy, and adding on a training division. Christina had refused several offers for the company, preferring to control her own destiny with the support of the two partners who had joined her in the eighties, Rachel Dawson and Robert Ironside.

Her son stared at her in surprise; through all of his life, her consultancy had been part of her. When his father, big Eamon, had died of cancer ten years earlier, it, more than anything or anyone else, had helped her deal with the tragedy.

'You serious?' he exclaimed.

'Never more so,' she assured him.

'You realise that as soon as you're gone those two'll sell out?'

'Good luck to them if they do. I'm happy with my deal.'

He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. 'In that case, good for you. Mum. If it's what you want to do, I couldn't be more pleased for you.' He frowned, suddenly. 'But what the hell's it got to do with me?'

'I'm not just retiring from the consultancy, son,' Christina answered.

'I'm going away. I've bought a house in Florence, and I'm going to live there. I want to study fine art, I want to paint, and I want to listen to music till my head's completely filled with it. I'm selling my flat in Northumberland Street; whenever I come back I'l stay with Mama or with you and Maggie.'

He blew out his cheeks. 'You're taking my breath away; but again, if this is what you really want, then go for it.'

Christina had never been a demonstrative woman, but she pul ed her son to her, and hugged him. 'I'm so glad you feel that way, all things considered.'

Gradual y, the rest of the truth began to dawn on him, and he understood the real reason for the family gathering. 'Wait a minute . . .'

he exclaimed. On either side of him, the two women smiled.

'You've got it,' said his mother. 'I'm retiring from all my business, including the family trust. And in that event, my place as a trustee passes to you.'

'Oh bloody hell. Mum,' he protested. 'I can't take that on, not now.

I've just been given a division to run. Surely to Christ, you can still do that from Italy.'

'No,' she answered, adamantly. 'I want my life back, Mario. I'm sixty two years old, and I stil have things to do. I've been a trustee since Papa died, and I've run my own business at the same time. Now it's your turn.'

'But . .. Come on, the paperwork can be couriered out to you, you can fly back for trustee meetings.'

'No!' Nana Viareggio snapped. It was the first time she had spoken sharply to him in thirty years. 'Your mother has made her decision,' the old woman declared, in a judicial tone. 'You've always known this day would come, lad. Just you be thankful it hasn't been forced on you by Him upstairs. And anyway, I know quite well that you've been keeping an eye on things al along. I told you, you've got your papa's blood in you.

'He needs you, I need you; it's time.'

Backed into a corner, Mario looked from one to the other. 'What the hell is this?' he grunted. 'There might be only two witches here, but I still feel like bloody Macbeth!'

'You can't avoid what's for you,' said his grandmother. 'Besides, there's a job needs doing that only you can do; it's beyond Beppe. He's not a bad man; but he's a fool to himself and he's not up to this on his own.'

'What's that?'

The old lady nodded, almost imperceptibly, across the room. Maggie and Aunt Sophia had been joined by another striking Viareggio woman; she was only an inch or two shy of six feet tall, olive-skinned, with dark eyes and lustrous hair which had turned silver, prematurely. She wore it undisguised, with pride, and to some it made her look around forty, although in fact she was only thirty-two.

'That one there,' murmured Nana. 'You have to keep a very close eye on your cousin Paula. She's my granddaughter, as much of my blood as you are, so it pains me to say it, but I do not trust that girl.'

She patted him on the shoulder. 'Now, Mario, son; you cal everyone to attention. Your mother has her announcement to make.'

Bob Skinner looked at Bradford Dekker and thought of his own chief.

Where Sir James Proud was silver-haired, massive and statesmanlike in his uniform, a man of gravitas, his counterpart in Buffalo was sleek, sharp-suited, around his own age, and looked more like a stereotypical car salesman than a policeman.

This was not unnatural since he was a politician first and foremost.

On Skinner's first visit to Buffalo, Leo Grace had told him about a former sheriff of Erie County, Grover Cleveland, who had gone on to become president of the United States. As he appraised Dekker, he tried to imagine him taking the oath of office on the Capitol steps; he tried, but he failed.

Whether it was prompted by the murdered Leo Grace's standing in his home town, or by courtesy to a fellow police officer, the Sheriff had come to the house on Stanford Avenue without the faintest sign of annoyance at the summons. He stood in the hal , at the foot of the broad flight of stairs which led to the upper floor, with Skinner, Brand and Kosinski, Kelly Lance having been sent back to her office to check how often her company's computer had been accessed within the last few weeks, and whether all of these searches had been authorised. The two uniformed officers who had brought him to the scene were on guard at the open front door, staring grimly at the few neighbours who had been attracted out by their car to see what might be going on.

'How wel did you know my father-in-law, Mr Dekker?' Skinner asked.

'I knew him very well,' the Sheriff replied. 'I was an intern in Mr Grace's law firm twenty years ago. He took an interest in me, and directed me towards criminal work. Then when my intemship was over, he pul ed a couple of strings to get me a post in the state attorney's office.'

'You must have impressed him.'

Dekker gave him a slightly sheepish look. 'Maybe, but I had clout with him too. He and my father were colleagues in the Democratic Party; as a matter of fact, my dad nominated Mr Grace for the State senate. Of course, he wouldn't have gone to bat for me if he hadn't 78

thought I was up to it, but he reached out to the people in Albany because of their history.'

'He still had contacts twenty years ago?'

Dekker glanced at him from beneath a raised eyebrow. 'Bob, your father-in-law stil had contacts last week. Mr Grace told everyone that he gave up politics a long time ago, but that wasn't exactly true; shit, it wasn't at al true. He was a kingmaker among Democrats, and privately, through his contacts, he raised a lot of money for the Party. When the new US senator started angling after the nomination, he was the second person she came to see, straight after she saw the incumbent. He must have approved of her, because without the support of Leopold Grace . . .