Dead Wrong (14 page)

A wide grin met mine. He leaned back in the chair as the waiter removed the dishes. Aaron ordered Cappuccino for us both and asked if I wanted dessert. I nodded a definite no and grinned.

“Tell me, did Lena say what her plans are for the future?”

“She just said that she and Nonni have planned a vacation together. Why?”

“Where? Do you know?”

“She wasn't certain where they would end up,” I lied, again. “Were the two vans in the street FBI surveillance?”

“One of them was, yeah. They reported what time you arrived and left. They also said Angelo was there.”

“Huh, anything else you can share – or is that it?”

“Like what exactly?”

“I don't know. What type of surveillance do you have going on?”

“Just the basics. We don't have probable cause for more than that. We have no evidence that Lena was involved in Nate's business.”

I nodded and sipped the fragrant brew delivered by the waiter. Mmm, good stuff.

“Has Angelo said what they have planned for Lena?”

“Not exactly, but I think they'd like to stuff her into a seniors' home of sorts. Maybe an Alzheimer's ward.” I shook my head in dismay.

“Surely she's not that bad off?”

“I don't think so, but who knows what will happen. I think she's sound enough to consider a vacation with Nonni. If my grandmother thought she was addle-brained, she wouldn't consider a trip to the market with her. Nonni is far from stupid and knows her limitations.”

“Yes, Nonni is quite astute. I like her – she has a sharp tongue and no fear. Quite a character, too.”

“If you only knew the half of it.” I laughed.

“You'll have to tell me sometime.” He chuckled and then stared at me again. “You don't think Lena will see me, then?”

“I asked and she said absolutely not. Lena probably wouldn't help you anyway, even if she could.”

Aaron nodded, but said nothing.

Chapter 19

As he drove, Aaron entertained me with stories of odd cases he'd been involved in. I soaked up the tales, thankful for not having to lie to him anymore, even if it was by omission.

Once the door to my apartment closed, I shuffled through my art supplies. It was then I realized the need for watercolor and pastel paper, and additional colors in both media. I checked my handbag for checkbook and credit cards, took some pain relievers, and left the house for Providence.

The time of day usually belies the amount of traffic headed in and out of the city. Around two in the afternoon, traffic into Providence starts to grow heavy. After four, the traffic out of the city is bumper to bumper. I finally made it into Providence and drove along Memorial Boulevard, headed to Rhode Island School of Design. The campus borders the Providence River where the canal has a pedestrian walkway on the college side. It's the historical part of the city with homes and buildings from the early days of a seaport Providence. Tourists, lawyers, and students gather along the canal for lunch, to relax and sketch. The lawyers frequent the Superior Courthouse just down the street from the college. They are a busy group of men and women who flow through traffic on foot from nearby offices.

When one such person stepped into the crosswalk, I slammed on my brakes and motioned to the ‘No Walk' sign lit above their head. The man gave me a cold glare and scuttled across the street, avoiding oncoming cars in the process.

My heart pounded over the fact that I'd nearly run down a pedestrian. That's when it hit me. The woman at the mall who had given me such a baleful glare was the same woman who'd caused my bicycle accident. Her face had embedded itself somewhere in my subconscious. It wasn't until this man had given me the same look that the memory had come to the forefront of my brain.

Cars honked and I stepped on the gas pedal to enter the flow of traffic. Turning onto South Main Street, I found a parking spot near the front of the RISD art supply store. The door lock clicked as I left the vehicle and wandered into the store. My mind in a muddle, I tried to focus on the supplies I needed to purchase.

Aisles of colorful chalks, pencils, tubes of paint, and paper caught my attention. With an effort, I thrust the memory of the woman aside and strolled through the store in search of what I needed. Wants outweighed needs. I ended up with more supplies than I'd anticipated. I smiled as I took stock of the basket of goodies and turned toward the register.

The student behind the counter, dressed in black with orange and purple striped hair, a long cross earring in one ear, and a stud in his lip, rang up my purchases. I stared out the wide windows of the store. The kid told me what I owed, and I handed him my credit card.

Once again I stared toward the glass panes facing South Main Street. A PPD detective car slowed for the red light at the corner. The driver glanced toward the store. I waved when I saw Anderson behind the wheel. He didn't see me and glanced away. I signed the credit card receipt and left the store, but Detective Anderson had already made the turn onto Waterman Street and was headed up the hill.

The rolled bundle of paper and bag of supplies were clutched tight within my grasp. I strode toward the spot where I'd managed to park while the cold wind buffeted my progress.

An alley laid to my right as I approached the car. I glanced toward the sound of a loud moan emanating from within the confines of the narrow space. Two dumpsters filled the passage, and I couldn't see who made the noise. Hesitant, I took a tentative step into the narrow space. Call me stupid, but curiosity rules my existence.

Once in the dim passageway, I called out. Another moan answered my words. I stepped further into the dank corridor. Tall buildings hovered over the limited space where dumpsters cut off whatever light there might have been from the street. Even though it was still afternoon, dreary skies had started to take on a dark hue. I walked a few steps further in, noting the worn shoe-covered foot. It extended just past the end of the furthest dumpster. With care I stepped closer.

My phone lay within my jacket pocket. I whipped it out and hit 9-1-1. A cool, calm, collected voice answered the call and asked what my problem was. By this time, I had stepped around the first dumpster and peered toward the leg protruding further out past the second trash container.

I poked my head past the second dumpster, glanced toward the ground at what appeared to be a homeless man covered with filth. A rank odor wafted upward and I choked from the smell. He lay nearly unconscious, blood seeping from his nose and lip.

“I'm at the Rhode Island School of Design campus,” I said and gave the address. “There is an alley near the art supply store and someone has been injured there. Send an ambulance, will you?”

I disconnected the call, aware that the emergency person would only continue to ask ridiculous questions. I set my purchases on the ground and kneeled toward the victim. He appeared to have been assaulted and was surely a homeless person.

A car slowed at the alley entrance. Before I could turn to see if it was the rescue, the man sat bolt upright, grabbed my jacket and puked all over it. Aghast, I stumbled backward, gagging on the sour smell.

The man let go of my coat to stare at me a moment before he fell back on the ground, eyes closed and breathing labored. I choked and gagged over the foul matter covering the front of my jacket. Gasping for fresh air, I pulled my arms out of the sleeves and tossed it aside.

“For Chrissake Vinnie, can't you stay out of trouble for one moment?” I heard a guffaw of laughter as I turned my head toward Officer Francisco DeMagistras. He shook his head at my appearance as he strode forward.

“We got a call about the victim. You failed to identify yourself, Vin. I saw your car and was afraid it was you. God, you stink.” He chuckled and backed up a bit after he inspected the victim on the ground.

Sirens wailed and a rescue vehicle pulled to the alley entrance. I stood up and grabbed the offending jacket, rolling it inward to keep the vomit off my hands and clothes. It was truly foul, wreaked of liquor and a variety of food. I figured I'd never get the smell out.

Frankie D. moved aside as rescue personnel filled the alley. I took a step back and followed him when he went toward the street. A rescuer stopped and asked if I was all right. I nodded and moved on.

We'd reached the sidewalk. Frankie wrote his report in the notebook he lifted from the front seat of his patrol car. A red Taurus pulled up behind him. Detective Anderson slid out of the car. I grinned and waved. He smirked and strode forward.

“I should have known that was you in the store. I couldn't see through the window very well. What have you done now?” He grinned and glanced at Frankie D. with a nod.

“Vin found an assault victim, a drunk who tossed his cookies on her coat. She stinks to the high heavens. I wouldn't get too close if I were you.” Frankie laughed. His brilliant smile and sense of humor covered the latte-colored face. He stepped from the vehicle, towering above me by a few inches. He was a big dude, one I'd never consider confronting.

“I heard him moan as I walked to my car. I had to check it out,” I said.

“Yeah right. It could have been an assault set up, did you consider that Miss Nosey Parker?” Anderson asked.

“Speaking of that, I remembered something of significance today. Do you have a minute?”

Frankie nodded to Anderson. I guessed Frankie had all the information he needed. The detective and I walked toward my car. I opened the trunk and pulled a plastic shopping bag out. With jacket inside it, I rolled the bag closed. It stunk as would the trunk before I got home.

As I leaned against the car, Porter stood a few feet away. I explained how I had remembered the woman from the accident. Anderson stared at me for a moment.

“So you think she is the one behind all this?” He shook his head. “A little far-fetched, wouldn't you say?”

“Think about it. She caused the accident, told Gina where to take me for treatment, and then I ran into her at the mall today. It's too coincidental to ignore.”

“I think your curiosity is out of control, Vin. It could just be a coincidence, nothing more. Maybe she felt bad about causing the accident and tried to help with a recommendation of the treatment center.”

He didn't believe me, and I realized I'd wasted my breath. In an effort to concede to his way of thinking, I nodded and said he might be right, that maybe I had overreacted. In my mind, I knew I hadn't.

The art supplies stowed in the backseat, I left Providence and headed west, toward home. As I neared the cut off on the expressway, I decided to stop at my mom's for a quick visit. The car swung south instead of west and I got off the exit nearest my mother's house.

The neighborhood was quiet. The cold weather had forced everyone inside. I slowed the car and turned into the driveway next to the Cape Cod style house where I'd grown up. The only vehicle in the yard belonged to my father.

The kitchen lay empty, though a kettle on the stove bubbled. I could smell beef and lifted the lid to check out what was cooking. Beef stew simmered and my mouth watered. I picked the wooden spoon off the counter and stirred the stew. As I replaced the lid, I heard the gruff voice behind me.

“You haven't done a taste test, have you?” my father asked with a smirk.

“Not yet, Dad.”

“Well, let me make you a bowl so you can do la zuppa with some bread.” He took a bowl from the cupboard and ladled stew into it. With a spoon from a drawer, he handed the bowl to me. Bearing a loaf of fresh, crusty Italian bread from the bread keeper, he handed that to me as well.

The stew smelled wonderful. I sniffed with appreciation. Sliding onto a chair at the table, I tore a hunk of bread from the loaf and dipped it into the thick broth.

“Mmm, this is wonderful.” I smiled my appreciation of his culinary abilities.

“Just what people need on a cold day such as this. Where is your jacket, anyway? You'll catch pneumonia, Lavinia.”

Unwilling to start an argument over my inability to mind my own business, I said, “I had it on, but spilled food down the front so it needs to be cleaned.” More like tossed in the trash, I thought, but smiled at him.

My father left the room and a few minutes later he returned with a heavy Fisherman's sweater, leftover from my college days. I'd forgotten all about the hand knit sweater and smiled to think he hadn't.

“Where did you find this?”

“Your mother cleaned the attic and found this packed in a bin. I thought you might want to keep it, so I tucked it away when she wasn't looking. You know how she gets when she cleans.”

With a chuckle, I nodded and finished the stew. I sat back and stared thoughtfully at my father for a moment.

“No card playing today?” I asked.

“We played earlier.” He stared at me. “What's up with Giovanni? He's not here for a medical conference, is he?”

“That's what he told me. Why?” Evasion, plain and simple. Sometimes it worked, but I wasn't that lucky today.

“Don't play games Lavinia. I know you two have had your heads together. I want to know what's going on.”

“If you want to know about Gio's affairs, Dad, you need to speak with him.”

“I have. He's not talking. You're mother is concerned. She's not sleeping well.”

If my mother was that worried, then she realized that all was not well with Saint Doctor Giovanni. I scrunched and unscrunched my napkin while I considered my father.

“Fine. I can tell you this much, Gio and Jill are having marital difficulties. He figured some distance between them might put a better perspective on things.”

Eyes narrowed, Dad asked, “What things?”

“Their issues. That's what ‘things.' ”

“You know more, but won't tell me, will you?”

“It's not my place to say anything about his affairs, Dad. I think they will resolve their problems. You can tell Mom not to worry, okay?”

“I have another question for you.”

A heavy sigh blew through my lips while I waited.

“When you were here the night of Nate's showing at the funeral home, Aaron asked some questions and you gave me the sign to keep quiet. Is he a fed?”

The man was astute – there was no getting around it. My father didn't jump to conclusions. He thought things through until the end of time before he made any judgment.

“He is. I won't lie about it, but keep the information quiet, all right? Marcus knows and I know. He's undercover with the FBI.”

“Is he involved in an investigation of our family?”

“I'm not sure what he's about at the moment. He can't talk about his job much and uses the Gaming Commission as his cover.” I lied, I couldn't help it. A confession at the Catholic church down the street from my house occurred to me. It was a fleeting thought, though. I was destined for hell, confession or not.

A nod of his head was all I got. Whether he did or didn't he believe me, was another matter.

He rose from the table. “More stew, Lavinia?”

“No, I better get home. Where's Gio?”

“At the hospital. He won't be home until late tonight. He's meeting up with some doctor friends for dinner.”

I left with a container of stew, fresh Italian bread and some cookies my mother had baked before she went to the senior center to serve tea. Life is good, I thought as I tucked the bag into the car.

Leaving Cranston, I drove through Nonni's section of town west of my parents' house. A minivan pulled up at the stop light behind me. I glanced in the rearview mirror and wondered if it was the woman from the mall. Was she following me? Where was she going? Did she know it was me in the car?

The light changed. I moved forward with the stream of cars. She followed behind. I turned down a side street and she did the same. Unable to stand the suspense, I whipped the car to the side of the road and jumped out. The mini-van slowed, the driver glared at me, made obscene hand gestures and sped away.