Lethal Legacy: A Novel (Guardians of Justice) (25 page)

The microwave pinged, and Vincentio rose from the solitary place Teresa had set for him at the table before she’d gone home to prepare for the Thanksgiving celebration she would enjoy tomorrow with her extended family.

The kind of celebration he wished was on
his
agenda.

Instead, he’d be eating his turkey dinner alone. Even Romano’s was closed.

Although the meal Teresa had left for him smelled appetizing, he wasn’t in the least hungry. His day had started badly, with the visit from the detectives, and he’d been feeling out of sorts all afternoon. Maybe he was catching a flu bug.

Or maybe he was just sick at heart.

Vincentio peeled back the plastic wrap from the veal scallopini and set it on the table. A glass of wine might help.

He crossed to the well-stocked rack on the far wall and perused the bottles. A special vintage tonight, perhaps. To lift his spirits.

As he debated his selection, then reached for a bottle of Chianti Rufina Riserva, his hand jerked at the sudden chime of the doorbell.

Shifting toward the foyer, he frowned. Who would show up at a man’s house unannounced the night before Thanksgiving?

Without removing the wine, he crossed the kitchen and approached the front door. He didn’t have many enemies these days, but caution had been ingrained in him since birth—especially in suspicious circumstances. And the timing of this visit was suspect.

The light was off in the foyer, and he didn’t flip it on. Instead, he moved to the door and put his eye to the peephole that offered a wide-angle view of his well-illuminated porch. The face of his visitor was distorted, but he had no trouble identifying him.

It was Marco!

Maybe he wouldn’t be spending Thanksgiving alone after all!

Hope burgeoning, he pulled back the two slide locks, twisted the key in the deadbolt, and smiled as he swung the door open.

Marco, the teddy bear gripped in his fingers, didn’t smile back. “We need to talk.”

Clinging to hope, Vincentio gestured his son into his house. “The living room is on your right.”

In silence, Marco entered and walked to the center of the foyer, where he turned to him, his stance wide-legged and defiant. As if he was preparing to do battle. “This will work fine. I’m not staying long.”

Vincentio closed the door, the heaviness in his chest squeezing the air from his lungs. He needed to sit, but that would leave Marco towering over him. Not the kind of position one took with an adversary.

And much to his regret, it was clear his son fell into that category. There had been no softening of his heart.

“Suit yourself.” Vincentio walked over to the inlaid wood credenza against the wall. The one he and Isabella had bought on their trip to Venice when she’d already been carrying their only child. Laying his hand on top of it, he steadied himself and straightened his shoulders.

“First of all, I don’t want your gifts.” Marco’s eyes smoldered as he flung the teddy bear onto a carved settee against the far wall. “Second, I don’t want you to show up at my door again. Ever. And third, I do not appreciate being contacted by police investigating your latest hit.”

The floor shifted beneath his feet. The detectives had gone to see Marco? “What are you saying?”

His son shot him a venomous look. “Two St. Louis County detectives called me at work today.”

“Did you talk to them?”

“Yes. I met them on my lunch hour. It sounds like you’re up to your old tricks, Dad.” His bitter tone turned the last word into a pejorative term.

Anger began to churn in Vincentio’s stomach. “What did they tell you?”

“Everything.” He planted his fists on his hips and glared at him. “You arranged the deaths of all those people who testified against you. Including James Walsh, an innocent bystander who tried to do the right thing. Even after thirty-plus years, you still sought revenge. I don’t know what beats in your chest, but it’s not a heart.” Revulsion curled his lips. “How do you live with yourself?”

Vincentio clenched the hand hanging at his side. “You don’t know anything. I spent twenty-eight years in prison thanks to that man.”

“No.” Marco closed the distance between them, stopping inches away, fury darkening his eyes until they were black. “You spent twenty-eight years in prison because you’re a criminal. That’s where you deserved to be. Where you still
should
be, considering all the people who died because of you.”

“I never killed anyone.” His words came out tight. Choked.

“Ordering a hit is the same as pulling the trigger. Maybe worse. Pointing a gun at someone takes guts. Paying someone to do your dirty work is cowardly.”

White-hot anger erupted inside him, and Vincentio lashed out, striking his son hard across the cheek. Marco’s head snapped sideways, but he didn’t flinch. He just stared at him, his expression cold as the ice already clinging to the ground on this holiday eve.

“That’s the Rossi way, isn’t it, Dad. Punishing those who stand up to you. Even when they’re right. Violence solves so many problems.” Sarcasm sharpened the edges of his words, which cut deeply as a knife.

Vincentio’s fingers began to tingle, and he stuck his hand in his pocket. In all the years before he’d gone to prison, he’d never once struck his son. How had he sunk this low?

Because Alan Carlson bungled the job he’d been well paid to do.

That was the truth of it. Walsh’s death would be history if the man hadn’t gotten cocky and gone on vacation. The investigation wouldn’t have been reopened, police detectives wouldn’t have visited his home, and the door to a reunion that had cracked following his visit to his daughter-in-law might be swinging open instead of slamming shut.

Rage once more coursed through him—but he stifled it as best he could. He had to make one last effort to reach his son.

“I didn’t kill anyone, Marco.”

His son’s gaze strafed him. “Can you look me in the eye and tell me you had nothing to do with James Walsh’s death?”

He stared back. “If I said yes, would you believe me?”

“No.”

“You believe those cops instead.”

“They don’t break the law. They uphold it.
That’s
an honorable calling.”

“You don’t know a thing about honor.” He ground out the words. “I can’t believe you’re a Rossi.”

“I wish I wasn’t.”

Any other time, that insult would have been intolerable. But for the sake of his grandson, he fought down his anger. He could deal with his bruised pride later.

“Did it ever occur to you I might have changed during my years in prison?”

“No.” His son’s response was immediate. “And everything I heard today proves that.”

“I can see the police turned you against me, just when I was hoping we could make a fresh start.”

“A fresh start was never a possibility. And for the record, they didn’t turn me against you. You did that yourself. Long ago.” Disgust mottled his features. “So who did you get to do it, Dad? Some slimeball in St. Louis looking for a fast buck?”

The question took Vincentio off guard. Why did his son care how the deed had been accomplished? Unless . . .

Another surge of anger rippled through him, and he tightened his grip on the edge of the credenza. “The cops asked you to come here tonight, didn’t they?”

“No. This was my idea. I wanted to make sure you got my message.”

“But they asked you to question me.”

“No. I offered to.”

Vincentio sucked in a sharp breath, as if he’d been punched in the stomach. “You’d work against your own father?”

“If he’s a criminal. So now you have another traitor in your midst. Are you going to order a hit on me too?”

“Get out.” Vincentio could barely choke out the words.

“My pleasure.” Marco strode across the room, opened the door, and looked back. “Don’t ever contact me again. And may God have mercy on your soul.”

He closed the door behind him with a sharp click.

For a full thirty seconds, Vincentio remained where he was. Then his legs grew weak and he began to tremble. Holding on to the credenza, he lurched along the length of it and sank onto the antique chair at the far end.

His son was lost to him.

And he would never be part of his grandson’s life.

A suffocating anguish settled over him, along with the searing pain of loss, absolute and final. He bent forward, wrapped his arms around himself, and rocked until slowly the ache eased enough to allow his brain to engage.

Two things were clear.

There would be no family holiday gatherings in his future. Ever.

And Alan Carlson was going to pay.

The instant the flight attendant gave the all-clear for electronic devices, Cole powered up his cell phone. There was one message—from Mark Rossi. He checked that first.

“Detective Taylor, I spoke with my father. He didn’t admit anything, and I didn’t have any luck when I tried to dig for information. But after talking with him, I’m more convinced than ever he was behind James Walsh’s death. I’m sorry I couldn’t get anything more for you.”

Dead end. Cole wasn’t surprised, but he’d hoped for more.

He punched in Kelly’s number. After three rings, it rolled to voice mail. Next, he tried Alan. The man answered on the second ring.

“It’s Cole. I got your message, and I talked to Lauren Casey. What do you have?”

“Nothing. I drove by both houses and even looked in the garage windows. Her car’s not in either place, and she’s still not answering her cell.”

“I know. I just tried.” The seat belt sign went off and Cole stood to pull his small carry-on from the overhead compartment.

“I’m en route to a rendezvous with a nervous tipster in the homicide case, then I’m out of here for the holiday. You want me to do anything else before I fall off the radar?”

“No. I’ll pick it up from here. Thanks.”

Cole inched down the aisle, stepping aside in the jetway to wait for Mitch. When his colleague emerged, he started forward again, noting that Mitch, too, had ditched his tie sometime during the flight. “I just talked to Alan. He didn’t come up with anything. Kelly’s still not answering. I’ll call Lauren as soon as we get onto the concourse.”

Once inside, he set his bag down and tapped in her number.

Again, she answered on the first ring. “Any news?”

“No. Alan didn’t see anything out of the ordinary at Kelly’s place or at her father’s house, and her car isn’t at either location.” He massaged the stiff muscles in the back of his neck. “I’d like to get inside her house and take a look around, but search warrants take time.”

“I can give you permission. I know where Kelly keeps an extra key, and I have her power of attorney for emergencies. I think this qualifies.”

“It does for me. I’ll worry about the red tape later.” He stooped to pick up his bag and motioned with his head for Mitch to follow as he started toward the main terminal. “Where’s the key?”

“Under a statue of St. Francis in the backyard. The statue’s in the middle of the garden with the stones around the edge, and the key’s wrapped in a tiny ziplock bag. She told me she put the new one there after she had all the locks changed a few weeks ago. Cole . . . do you think we need to get more people involved in this?”

“Yeah. I’m going to have a BOLO alert issued on her car as soon as we hang up. Worst case, we can consider a GPS trace on her cell.”

“Forget it. Her cell is ancient. Five, six years old at least, and a bare-bones model.”

Great.

“Okay. We’ll pursue other avenues.”

“Will you keep me informed?”

“I’ll call as soon as I know anything. Talk to you later.” He tapped the end button.

“You going to Kelly’s house?” Mitch dropped back to allow a young mother juggling an infant and a diaper bag to edge past him in the opposite direction.

“Yeah. I’m also going to swing by her dad’s place. Carlson said Kelly might have spent the night there because her power was out. I can run you by the office first, though, so you can pick up your car.”

“Would you like some company?”

Cole looked over at him. “We’ve been on the go for twenty-four hours. You’ve got to be beat.”

Mitch lifted one shoulder. “You stuck with me a few months ago when Alison was in trouble.”

“She’s my sister.”

“And you’re about to become my brother-in-law. This is what families do.”

Cole’s throat tightened, and he focused on the keypad in front of him. “Thanks. Now I’m going to get that BOLO alert in the works. And cross my fingers we find something in Kelly’s house that will give us a clue to where she is.”

A sudden jolt, followed by an explosion of pain in her head, nudged Kelly back to consciousness. When she opened her eyes, however, everything was pitch black. But she could feel a vibration. There was a hum too. Like a car engine.

She was in the trunk of a car.

Battling the haze muddling her brain, she tried to brace herself against the bumps. Yet she kept sliding. Like she was lying on a slippery surface. And what was that scratchy feeling around her neck?

She had no idea how much time passed before they reached their destination, but all at once she stopped sliding. The engine vibration ceased. She heard the soft click of a car door opening. Another soft click as it closed. A key was fitted in the trunk lock. She tensed as the lid rose.

The trunk light didn’t come on, and the sky was black. No moon or stars added even the barest hint of illumination, meaning the clouds had returned. But while the face above her was in shadows, the soft voice was clear. Too clear. And it sent shivers down her spine.

“We’re almost done, Kelly.”

Leaning down, Carlson slid his arms under her knees and shoulders. Then he lifted her out of the trunk and propped her beside the car.
Her
car, she realized, before the world tilted and her knees buckled. He grabbed her with one hand as she started to slide, holding her in place as he loosened the scratchy thing around her neck with his other hand.

Although her vision was blurry, she now understood why she’d been sliding around so much. She was encased in an oversized plastic garbage bag from toes to neck.

And she’d watched enough police shows to know why.

Carlson didn’t want to leave any trace evidence in her trunk that would suggest she’d made this trip under duress rather than driving herself.

He pushed the bag down her body. When he got to her feet, he cut the plastic restraint and removed the hand towels that had protected her ankles. “Step out.”

Once she complied, he stuffed the bag, towels, and restraints into the backpack he’d placed on the lid of the trunk. Then he removed her knit cap and pulled off the shower cap that had encased her hair underneath. That, too, went into the backpack before he tugged the knit version back over her head and tucked her hair inside it. He grazed her bruised temple with his knuckles, sending a shaft of pain shooting through her skull, and she moaned again.

He ignored her.

As he locked her car, tucked the keys in the pocket of her jacket, and hefted his backpack into place, she peered at her surroundings, blinking as she tried to focus. They were in a far corner of a gravel lot, surrounded by woods. The kind of spot she often parked near trailheads.

So her theory had been correct. He was going to stage a hiking accident.

A frigid gust of wind whipped past, and she shivered as Carlson took her arm and propelled her toward the dark woods.

And as he set off down the trail, dragging her along beside him, she knew that short of a miracle, this would be her last hike.

“I have another assignment for you.” Vincentio pressed the phone against his ear with his right hand and splayed the fingers of his left hand on his desk.

“I’m always happy to be of service.”

Yes, he was. For a price. But Vincentio was willing to pay handsomely for this particular service. Especially from a trusted colleague, a man of sound judgment whose advice he’d overridden when he’d selected Carlson for the Walsh job. A man who had demonstrated his loyalty and reliability many times over.

“First, I want you to check with our friend in St. Louis to confirm he’s followed through on his plan to correct the problem. Assuming he has, his usefulness is finished. He’s caused me great trouble and has taken actions I do not approve of. There are consequences for that. Am I clear?”

“Very.”

“Good. I want this done fast, and I want it done clean. No questions. No links. And I want it done within the next twenty-four hours. I’ll pay fifty percent over the usual price. Can you handle this?”

“The timing will be a challenge . . . but I know someone in the area who I believe can pull this off. A professional. I’ll contact him at once.”

Vincentio didn’t miss the slight emphasis on the word
professional
, a dig at
his
choice of an amateur for the Walsh job. He let it pass. “Excellent. I’ll arrange payment as soon as this call is finished. It will be in your hands tomorrow. Let me know when the job is completed.”

“Of course.” The line went dead.

Authorizing the payment took only one phone call. Then Vincentio set aside the throwaway, nontraceable cell phone he’d picked up last weekend for emergency use and leaned back, elbows on the arms of the chair he’d ordered three years ago from a family-owned leather shop in Agrigento.

Marco had claimed he was a killer. But for him, doling out punishment was simply taking care of business. Protecting the family honor. Lives were lost, yes, but not without reason. The killing in his world wasn’t meaningless, like the senseless violence that was all over the news these days.

Still . . . this would be his last hit. He’d settled all his scores. He had no more enemies.

Except his son.

His throat constricted, and he picked up the glass of wine he’d poured after Marco’s visit. Took a sip. It went down smooth, warming him. He put it to his lips again. He and Isabella had always sat together with a glass of wine at night, after Marco went to bed. It had been his favorite part of the day. Loving. Intimate. Filled with quiet laughter and gentle touches. Far preferable to drinking wine alone.

But that was his lot in life now, thanks to the bungling ineptitude that had sent detectives to his son’s doorstep—and quashed his hope of a relationship with his grandson.

His fingers tightened on the stem and he lifted his glass in mock salute to the man who’d ruined everything.

“Good riddance, Carlson.”

And then he drank to the man’s demise.

Cole fitted the key in Kelly’s lock and turned the knob. “Let’s take a quick walk-through first and see if anything jumps out at us.”

Without waiting for Mitch to respond, Cole flipped a light—at least the power was working now—and moved to the kitchen. It was neat as a pin, as usual. No dishes in the sink, no clutter on the counter, the flour, sugar, and tea containers aligned. It looked the same as it had on his previous visits.

“Does someone actually live here?” Mitch scanned the pristine space.

“She’s very neat.”

“No kidding.” He gave the place another once-over. “At least it should be easy to tell if anything is out of order. You want me to check the basement while you do a sweep up here?”

“Yeah.” He gestured to the right. “That’s the door.”

While Mitch focused on the lower level, Cole checked out the bedrooms. Both appeared undisturbed, as did the closet in each. Nothing was amiss in the bathroom, either. He switched on the light in Kelly’s office. An easel was positioned to catch the light from the large window during daylight hours, and despite his worry, the charming half-finished illustration of an elf using a mushroom as a table tugged at his lips. As in the other rooms, everything in her work space was neatly organized. Brushes were arranged by size and shape, tubes of paint were sorted by color in a plastic tub, stacks of different types of paper shared shelf space with her camera, palettes were . . .