Impulse (37 page)

Now she had nothing except what her son might choose to give her. DeLorio wasn’t normal, but she knew things that Dominick didn’t know, knew things her father had never known. She knew, for instance, about the teenage girl: her name has been Marie, and she’d been fourteen years old when DeLorio abused and raped her and left her nude in a field some three miles from her parents’ house. She’d survived—and hadn’t named her assailant. Sylvia had managed to see to that. DeLorio had been thirteen at the time. She’d paid the girl’s family over eighty thousand dollars to
date. She wouldn’t pay them another cent. Let DeLorio do it. Let Dominick know the whole dirty story. He could pay. She was through. She could even call them up.
Hello, Mr. Delgado. This is Sylvia Giovanni and I just wanted you to know that you’ll not see another dime from me. My son’s father owns an island and he’s very rich and here’s his address.

She hated her father at that moment. She’d told him about DeLorio. Not all of it, no, but she’d had to tell him something so he’d provide enough money for the girl’s family. And he’d still left the money to his grandson. There had been other incidents, lesser infractions, but each with DeLorio’s individual earmark. She’d been frankly relieved when Dominick demanded custody of his only son. She’d rather thought at the time that DeLorio had called his father himself and made up stories about how his mother had abused him and about how unhappy he was with her. She’d wanted to sing hallelujahs when he’d finally walked out of her life. And then she’d remember at odd times how sweet he’d been as a little boy. Innocent and sweet, pure, and all hers. When he’d changed at puberty, the pediatrician had merely smiled and told her not to worry. He was just a normal boy and he’d get over the raging hormones. A fat lot that doctor had known.

Evidently her father had blamed her for DeLorio’s leaving. He’d punished her, but good.

Sylvia waved down a taxi and returned to her father’s penthouse. Even that was now owned by DeLorio. She packed her things and was at O’Hare within an hour. Within three hours she was on her way to Los Angeles. She’d wanted Japan, but she didn’t have her passport and she wasn’t about to return to Long Island for it.

Let him go there to find her. She’d sell the mansion, kiss Oyster Lee off, and let him go rot. She’d learn how to economize. But how she’d miss her roses.

She flew first class, momentarily forgetting that her financial status had changed drastically. She immediately ordered a whiskey, neat. Then another and another.

After four of them she fell asleep, much to the flight attendant’s relief. “All I need in first class,” he remarked to his friend. “A rich lush.”

Dominick wasn’t notified until late that afternoon by Samuel Goldstein about Carlucci’s will. He also told Dominick that Sylvia had left, and she hadn’t told him where she was going. Probably gone home, Goldstein thought, pondering. Probably not a wise thing to do. Not that he felt concern about her. He’d even given her a head start.

Dominick just smiled into the phone. He was pleased on both counts. He decided to remain in Chicago another day. He wasn’t as yet certain how pleased he was about Carlucci’s will. DeLorio needed his firm hand or he’d do something stupid with drugs. It was something to think about—DeLorio and all that money that was his and only his.

As for Frank Lacy, after checking around, he was on a flight to Los Angeles. His cold would improve in the warmth of southern California.

The Bennington Hotel, London, England
April 2001

Rafaella spoke quietly into the phone. Marcus was still sound asleep, sprawled fully clothed on his back. She didn’t want him to hear what she was saying.

She said to her stepfather, unable to keep the excitement from her voice, “She really woke up? She really said something? What did she say?”

Charles stared at the phone. Well, there wasn’t any reason not to tell her the truth now. When he’d gone
to get the final journal the previous night, it wasn’t in Margaret’s desk, nor were any of the others. Rafaella must have taken them. There was no one else. So now she knew. Knew about her real father, knew all her mother’s pain and obsession. He said harshly, “She called out
his
name and then yours and said ‘No, no.’ That was about it.”

It was Rafaella’s turn to stare at the phone. So Charles had read the journals too; her mother certainly hadn’t confided in him. He’d found the journals and read them, and now he realized that Rafaella had read them too, because some were missing.

“How long have you known about Dominick Giovanni? And about me and my antecedents?”

“A long time,” Charles said. “A year, but it seems like forever. I might as well tell you something else, my dear. The person—the drunk—who hit your mother was none other than Sylvia Carlucci Giovanni. I hired a detective and he discovered it was her car. Your mother was driving near where the woman lives. I can’t figure out why.”

Rafaella absorbed the shock of it and shook her head even as she said, “I can’t either. Mother didn’t think Sylvia had had any contact with Dominick in years. I don’t know why she would have been driving near there. I don’t like it, Charles. You’re right: coincidences like that don’t add up.”

“You should come home, Rafaella. Either here or back to Boston.” He paused, then said deliberately, “I don’t know exactly where you are right now. Al Holbein told me you’d gone to the Caribbean for a rest. I pray you aren’t anywhere near that man’s island, but if you are, you’ll have to get out of there now. I want you to come home.”

“It seems you know everything. I can’t come home, Charles. Not just yet. Dominick went to Chicago for the funeral. Now I’m in London, not on the island.”

There was a startled silence. “Why?”

“I can’t go into it, Charles. I’ll be very careful, you can count on that. Giovanni can’t hurt me here.”

“That man could hurt the devil.”

“I’ll be very careful,” she said again. “Please tell Mother I love her. I’ll call again tomorrow.” She paused a moment. “Charles? I’m sorry, very sorry. For all of us, but particularly for Mother.” Rafaella rang off before Charles could say anything.

“I knew you had a talented mouth—”

She said as she turned to face him, “Don’t finish that, Marcus.”

She looked worried, so he didn’t tease her anymore. “Did you get some sleep?”

“Enough, I suppose. You’re awake,” she added, seeing that he hadn’t moved, that he was still sprawled on his back. But he was alert; he was always alert.

“How’s your mother?”

“As you’d told me, she woke up, then slid back into the coma. What you didn’t know was that she spoke a few words before going back under.” Rafaella stood up and pulled her robe belt tighter around her. “I’ll call room service. What would you like?”

He started to try out his morning wit but decided against it. She looked on edge. A lot had happened in a very short time, things that had been beyond her control. So he kept his wit firmly under wraps and contemplated breakfast. “Oat bran, please. I care about my cholesterol level.”

She was momentarily distracted. “I can’t insult your choice, since you look like you could run a marathon. I think I’ll change and put on my face. Do you really play the harmonica, like a western cowboy sitting cross-legged in front of a campfire?”

“Yes, ma’am, I do. I’ve always dreamed of a flute accompaniment.”

“I’ve always thought a harmonica would be nice to play along with.”

“Soon, Ms. Holland.” They were just staring at each
other, and Marcus felt the urgency between them but knew that there was just too much uncertainty in both their lives to allow for mutual trust.

She said quickly, “Why don’t you go shower?”

Since there was little choice in the matter, Marcus agreed.

After Rafaella called room service with their order, she changed as she listened to Marcus sing opera in the shower at the top of his lungs. He wasn’t bad. He even knew the words in Italian. That was impressive. The opera was
Don Giovanni.

When a knock sounded on the door, Rafaella had just finished brushing her hair. She looked toward the still-closed bathroom door, shrugged, and opened the door. A fresh-faced waiter rolled in a trolley with beat-up covered silver trays on it. She signed the bill and tipped him three dollars. Marcus had changed some money at Heathrow but she didn’t want to go through his trousers. After the waiter had left, she sniffed at the domed platters for a whiff of the eggs Benedict she’d ordered. Nothing. She lifted the lid on one of the trays.

She yelled, then instinctively covered her mouth with her hand as she gagged. The silver tray banged against the table and thudded to the floor.

Marcus burst through the bathroom door, wearing nothing but surprise on his face.

“What the hell—?”

Then he saw, and winced. There was a large rat on the plate, mangy and gray and still warm. It was quite dead. A folded piece of paper was sticking out from beneath it.

The Bennington Hotel, London, England
April 2001

Rafaella wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. She just stared at that mangy gray thing. She couldn’t think of a thing to say; she just stood there gagging.

“Well,” Marcus said, looking a bit green around the gills, “that’s enough to make a grown man puke.” He gingerly pulled the folded piece of paper out from under the rat, then picked up the cover and gently replaced it over the platter. He unfolded the paper and read the bold black lettering.

“What does it say?”

He handed it to her and Rafaella read:

“Olivier, I presume?”

“Yes, I guess so. Some sense of humor, huh? Although he’s right about the symbolism.” He sounded preoccupied and Rafaella said, chuckling, “You’re naked, Marcus. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. You came charging out of the bathroom every bit like Saint George,
sans
armor.”

He looked down at himself. “Not much of a dynamic stallion at the moment.”

“What’s the opposite? Oh, yes, a gelding.”

“Just keep looking, and yours truly will soon rise to the occasion. If I get a robe, will you have breakfast with me?”

Rafaella looked at the covered platter and shivered. “Move that thing out of here first—No, let’s go out.”

They ate lunch near the British Museum, at the Running Fox Inn. He told her not to order beer, but she did, just to be contrary, then wished she’d listened to him. It was warm and heavy and flat.

“You’ve got to ask for your Coke in a glass filled with ice,” he said, and raised his hand to the waitress.

Once they’d gotten their corned-beef sandwiches, Rafaella said, “This Olivier person, how did he find out so quickly that we were here?”

“You got me, kiddo. As I said, he’s got spies everywhere. This club of his—it’s called The Occidental Club. It’s in Piccadilly, if I remember my notes correctly. We’ll dress up, go see him, and you’ll be my decoration, nothing more. You got that?”

“Decoration? Kindly elaborate on that, please.”

“My lady, my companion, my mistress.”

“Like Coco.”

Marcus looked startled, then said slowly, “Yeah, like Coco. You’re to look expensive, beautiful, and must keep your mouth shut when the men talk business.”

“I feel like a gun moll from the thirties. Shall I wear a pistol in my garter?”

“If he knew you were a reporter, I doubt he’d invite us to his inner sanctum, and this is important. Think you can pull it off?”

“Yeah, I can pull it off. I did well playing different roles as a reporter.” She added thoughtfully as she took another bite of her sandwich, “I don’t know why
he doesn’t know about me. He seems to know everything else.”

“Good question, but I guess he disregards women as a threat to him. Just hope he doesn’t ever think you’re more than my moll.”

That evening they stood in front of The Occidental Club, a tall narrow building just off St. James’s Street, a building discreet in the extreme to any passerby. For one of the hottest gambling clubs in London, it wasn’t close to what Rafaella had expected. Had she really been naive enough to think it would be loud and garish with overdressed people dripping with jewels hanging out the windows?

They were ushered in solemnly by a man garbed in black evening clothes. He had a very bald head and a Vandyke beard. “Mr. Devlin,” he said, nodded, turned, and walked through an arched doorway. The main salon was at least thirty feet by seventy—the entire length and width of the building. Soft lighting from opulent crystal chandeliers radiated a pleasing glow on the men and women standing beneath them. No garish loud folk here, Rafaella saw. Just very wealthy and discreet people winning and losing oodles of money.

“I hear tell,” Marcus said just above her left ear, “that on a good night Olivier hauls in almost three hundred thousand pounds. Incidentally, you look gorgeous.”

“And expensive? And sexy? And kept?”

“Yes, all of those wonderful things.”

She gave him a look that spelled out some kind of retribution, but he just kept smiling. He’d sent her that afternoon to forage on Fleet Street, where all the newspapers were housed, to find out about Olivier. She hadn’t found much because the man avoided publicity and Scotland Yard like the plague, but she had met a reporter for the London
Times
who’d wanted to help and also wanted a date with her. Marcus had
disappeared, turning up late that afternoon back at their hotel room carrying several boutique boxes. At her raised brows he’d said, “I needed a tux and so did you.”

Her “tux” was a Halston white jersey gown that was incredibly simple and so suggestive that she’d just stared at it for several minutes. “It’s indecently elegant,” she said finally.

She tried it on at Marcus’s urging, and when she came out wearing the gown and the matching white pumps, she looked indeed like a very rich man’s very expensive lady. “The heels should be higher,” Marcus said, rubbing his jaw judiciously, “but you never know when you’ll have to sprint out of a tight spot.”