Impulse (8 page)

Dominick Giovanni had been her mother’s private penance, a demon she’d exorcised again and again, or tried to. Rafaella hoped writing the journals had helped her. She knew that her mother would never have shown the journals to her.

Rafaella had learned in the third journal that her mother had gotten her revenge on Gabe Tetweiler. She’d gotten him; but good. It had cost her ten thousand dollars or thereabouts, but old Gabe was now in prison in Louisiana for attempted child molestation.

Rafaella said, “You’re a very fine man, Charles. I wish you were my father.”

“I agree with that, my dear.”

Rafaella lifted her mother’s other hand. So cold and so very limp. “I don’t want her to die.”

Charles was silent.

“She’s not going to die, is she?”

“I don’t know, Rafaella. Would you rather she spent the next twenty years hooked up to all this cold equipment, a vegetable? Dead but alive thanks to these machines?”

Rafaella laid her mother’s hand down beside her and rose. “Who’s the man who hit her?”

“Nobody knows. There was a vague description of the car—a dark sedan, four-door, but that’s it. Man, woman—the guy who saw the accident wasn’t sure. Whoever it was, the driver was weaving all over the road—a drunk, the cops say.”

“So this drunk hits her, guesses things are bad, and takes off?”

“That’s what the police are saying. They put out their bulletins on him, but—” Charles shrugged.

“Yeah, I know what you mean. I’m going for a walk. I’ll be back soon.”

Charles gave her an intent look. “Don’t lock all your feelings inside, Rafaella. You don’t have to keep all that hurt to yourself. I’m here, you know, and I love you.”

Rafaella merely nodded. She walked from the room, closing the door very quietly behind her.

Giovanni’s Island
February 2001

Marcus was in pain; he was also confused by what had happened. Why had Van Wessel and Koerbogh poisoned themselves? And why now? If they’d planned to, why not immediately? Why didn’t Dominick come and explain it to him?

But Dominick didn’t say anything when he visited. Nor did Merkel. The late afternoon of the Dutchmen’s demise, Marcus was alone, bored, in some pain, and woozy from the lingering effects of the Demerol. He didn’t open his eyes when he heard the door open quietly. It was probably Merkel with an ad to show him from the most recent
GQ
, a suave new suit he wanted to buy. He’d shown Marcus a good half-dozen now, telling him that he owed him for getting blood all over his suit. All the suits were white; they all looked like the ones he already owned. When Marcus had suggested a double-breasted Armani, he thought Merkel was going to expire.

“Hello, baby.”

He would have groaned except he decided in that instant to feign sleep.

“It’s just as well,” he heard her say more to herself than to him. He felt the bed give as she sat beside him. Then he felt her hand slip under the single sheet and stroke over his side.

He didn’t need this, he didn’t want it. “Paula, stop it, for God’s sake! I’m a sick man and you’re married.”

“DeLorio is still in Miami and I’ve decided to make you feel better. Think of me as your private nurse. I quite like you, Marcus, even though you act like a jerk toward me sometimes. But then I wonder how many women you’ve made love to, and it makes me hot.” Her hand was on his butt now, and he brought his legs together, but it didn’t matter. Her long fingers
slid between his thighs and she was touching him.

“Paula, stop it!” He reared up, trying to turn, and the pain stopped him cold. He gasped, frozen.

“Lie down, baby, just lie down. Paula will make you feel better.”

“Get out,” he said, but his voice was low and indistinct, and he was, incredibly, hard as a stone. Then she helped him onto his side, something he hadn’t expected, because it forced her to get her hands off him. Just for a moment. Then she had the sheet down and he was nude and he was hard and she was looking at him and smiling, and holding him on his side against her body.

“Very impressive. A long time, Marcus? I like to see a man appreciate me. Let’s see how far the appreciation goes, shall we?”

“Please,” he said, wishing he had the strength to push her away. He could have found the strength, he finally admitted to himself, he was just choosing to lie to himself and not use it. He tried to roll back onto his stomach, but she just moved closer, sitting against him, holding him still. He groaned when her hand closed over his cock. She found her rhythm and she talked to him, sex talk, that made him furious and aroused him quickly, too quickly. His breath was heaving and he was shuddering. She released him and he felt her warm mouth close over him and he was shoving into her mouth and she took him, and God, she was good, not giving him a moment’s respite, and he jerked in her mouth and as he came she caught him in her hand again. He panted, sucking in deep breaths, the pain in his shoulder momentarily suspended. She was on her knees next to the bed, and strands of her white-blond hair were clinging to his sweating belly.

She looked up him. “That was very nice—for you,
Marcus. Next time, it’s for me, okay? I hear someone coming. Probably Merkel. Just keep the sheet up and he won’t know what you’ve done.” She giggled as she wiped her hand quickly on the sheet.

Marcus heard her say something to Merkel in the hall.

He pulled the sheet to his nose. He felt raped, furious, and eased. Masturbated by Paula, for God’s sake. She was good, and that made him even angrier.

He opened an eye to see Merkel looking down at him.

“Smells like sex in here.”

Marcus closed his eyes again.

“DeLorio’s coming back tonight. You’ll be safe from her then. I think I’ll spray some pine-forest air freshener in here.”

Then Merkel laughed again. Another spontaneous laugh, at his—Marcus’s—expense.

“Go drown yourself.”

“You want a washcloth, buddy?”

“I never want to hear your horsey laugh again, you stupid Neanderthal. Yeah, give me a washcloth.”

“Hurt my feelings, Marcus, you surely do. I know you’ve tried to make me laugh for more months than I can count. Now you did it and you’re pissed. You’re weird.”

What Marcus wasn’t was weird; what he was, was frantic. He had to get out of here. Paula and her play with him could ruin everything. It could get him killed. He had to get away from here, back to the resort. And that night he did, at least as far as Dominick’s downstairs library and meeting room.

He made it, breathing hard, his skin filmed with sweat from the exertion, but he was determined. Dominick hadn’t told him a damned thing. He had to find out what was going on. He closed his sweating hand over the doorknob, then paused. He heard DeLorio
say in a loud voice, “A shame the Irish trash didn’t cash it in.”

Dominick’s voice, mild and calm: “Marcus saved my life. Incidentally, you’ve got some Irish blood in you.”

“He had his reasons, no doubt. Anyway, what do you expect? You treat him like he’s more important to you than your own son. My God, if I’d had a go at him, he’d have been in hell before he hit the ground!”

Marcus backed off. He hadn’t realized DeLorio hated him so much. He wondered if DeLorio would be a problem, a real problem he’d have to worry about. The good Lord knew he had enough problems, and now this tantrum from a twenty-five-year-old man whose wife of ten months had given him head only four hours before. Marcus made his way back upstairs. His shoulder hurt and he felt dizzy.

He still hadn’t found out anything about the Dutchmen. He had to get away from here.

Boston
Tribune
Newsroom
Boston, Massachusetts
March 1, 2001

One day back, and the wretched phone hadn’t stopped ringing. Rafaella grabbed it on the third ring, scrunched it between her shoulder and her ear, and kept reading the articles she’d found in the
Tribune
’s library on arms smuggling. Not much, but it was a start.

“Rafaella Holland here.”

“Hi. It’s Logan.”

“Airport?”

An old joke between them, not funny anymore, yet she’d said it out of reflex action.

“Yeah. The first-class section. Where have you been? What’s going on?”

She found herself blinking. She’d forgotten all about
Logan Mansfield, an assistant D.A. “My mother was hurt in an accident. I flew there last Friday.”

“Oh. How is she?”

“Very serious.” Her voice cracked. “In a coma.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, Rafaella. I want to see you tonight. It’s been two weeks, nearly. I need to talk to you.”

She was leaving tomorrow. She chewed on her lower lip, staring at the article in her hand about the scandal in Sweden. Bofors illegally sold weapons to Iran and Iraq. Not too good for Nobel Industries, she thought. Logan made an impatient noise and she said quickly, “Sure, Logan. Come on over to my place around eight o’clock. I’ve got to clean out my fridge. You can help me.”

He agreed and rang off.

I shouldn’t have invited him over, she thought, then shook her head. She and Logan Mansfield had been together for nearly three years now, lovers occasionally, friends occasionally, adversaries occasionally, neither one wanting commitment. A perfect arrangement for both of them.

She read on about the “Irangate” in Italy, this one about Borletti’s northern Italian weapons manufacturer illegally shipping mines and other weapons to Iran. Lord, it was complicated, all the machinations they went through to get the illegal arms from point A to point B. She read about end-user certificates that were all a scam, about different methods of smuggling—mines and arms or whatever, in crates labeled “medical equipment” or “farm equipment”—the list was endless. Criminal ingenuity—and in the U.S. there was only the U.S. Customs Service to stop them.

Besides Borletti, she read about a man named Cummings who said he’d sell to anyone if the government allowed it except Qaddafi. There was Kokin and his Los Angeles arms emporium; and Soghanalian, who had branches in Miami, Beirut, and Madrid. Some did business with the CIA, others didn’t. Most claimed
they were as honest as the sky was blue. If that were true, Rafaella thought, then how had the war between Iran and Iraq lasted so very long? And the war in Angola?

There were other names mentioned, and among them she found, finally, the name she was looking for—Dominick Giovanni. She read intently now. “…Little is known about Giovanni, a U.S. citizen. He is protected by intermediaries, and prizes anonymity. It’s rumored that his power and influence base exceed those of Robert Sarem and of Roderick Olivier in the world arms market. He operates solely out of his compound on his own island in the Caribbean…”

“You still going, Rafe?”

She looked up at Al Holbein. “I need a vacation, just like I told you. Charles agrees I should go. I’ll keep in touch with him every day to see how my mother is doing.” It hurt to lie to Al, just as it had hurt to lie, by omission, to Charles.

“
If
it’s just a vacation,” Al said, moving closer, blocking her from Gene Mallory’s view. “Ignore lover boy,” he added, “he’s just jealous.”

“I will. It’s a good thing sometimes that you’re twenty pounds overweight, boss.”

“In your ear, kiddo. Where are you going, Rafaella? And why? You might as well tell me the truth. I can always tell when you’re lying to me.”

He rarely used her full name. It gave her pause. Had he spoken to her stepfather? It wouldn’t have mattered. Charles wasn’t all that intuitive at the moment, all his energies focused on her mother; he didn’t know what his stepdaughter was up to. She’d been very careful.

“A vacation, a long-overdue rest. In the Caribbean. For two weeks. You jealous? And I don’t lie.”

He didn’t answer, just looked at her closely. He looked down at the pile of articles on her desk. “You’ll send a postcard?”

“Count on it. I’ll try to find one of those
Men Are Pigs
cards, just for you.”

“Your mom’s condition still the same?”

Rafaella nodded, tears closing in her throat. Now her frantic machinations over Freddie Pithoe seemed mundane compared to what she planned to do.

Al patted her shoulder. “Get out of here. I’ve got my hands on Larry Bifford—he’ll be taking over your assignments until you get back.”

She felt a spurt of paranoia mixed with a good dose of insecurity. “He’s pretty good,” was what came out of her mouth.

“Yep, the best,” Al said cheerfully. “Take your time, kiddo.”

She watched him amble away, graceful despite his bulk as he wove his way through the closely placed desks to his office. He seemed oblivious of the continuous noise in the newsroom, oblivious of the young sports reporter who tossed a football to the entertainment editor. It sailed by Al’s ear, missing him by two inches.

“You’re too smart, Al,” she said under her breath. She managed to get out of the
Tribune
office with a minimum of words to Gene. He gave her a stiff goodbye, and she gave him an easy see-you-around.

Brammerton, Massachusetts
March 1, 2001

Logan roamed through Rafaella’s living room and followed her into the kitchen, not volunteering to help, just watching her and fidgeting with a can opener.

“All right, Logan, what is it?” she asked finally, slapping down the hot pad and looking away from the warmed-up tuna casserole. “You’ve been acting strange. I’m tired, not in such a good mood, and I’m
worried about my mother. Now, what gives with you?”

That gave him pause. Logan, another ultra-WASP, she realized, studying him. Blond, blue-eyed, tall, lanky, a passable lover, a sense of humor, and now—now she just wished he’d spit out what was bothering him. She was tired, frantic with worry for her mother, and scared of what she knew lay ahead.

“Pithoe,” he said, as if that said it all.

Rafaella served the casserole onto paper plates. They had to eat it fast or it would soak through. She set a bottle of white wine on the table and pulled out several day-old bagels. “Sit and let’s eat before it gets cold.”

They sat and ate. “Pithoe,” Logan said again after two bites of casserole.

“What about it? Them? Freddy or Joey?”